


nearest exit behind you

by werebird



Series: Pilot AU [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Biphobia, Bittersweet Ending, Brock is condescending all around, Brock sees what he wants to see, Complicated Relationships, Derogatory Language, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity, Internal Conflict, Kink Negotiation, Love/Hate, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Patronizing Behavior, Pilots, Relationship Negotiation, Self-Discovery, Slut Shaming, Texting, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Verbal Humiliation, no emojis though we text like it's 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 106,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebird/pseuds/werebird
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Brock was a decent guy. Really. All he wanted was to live a decent life and maybe find a decent relationship down the road. Steve Rogers was the opposite of decent. And Brock wasn't going to change his mind for him. No, he wasn't going to change his life for him. Ever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are two sides to every story...   
[Steve POV here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375266)

It just wasn't that difficult. Laptop and phone in a separate tray, liquids in a separate bag. Brock drew in a sharp breath, but forced his annoyance off his expression as the guy in front of him rummaged through his hand luggage to find the bottle that had set off Brock's colleagues at the monitor. 

The guy's face was burning up with shame and stress. All that for what Brock guessed was some lube. Lube that no one at airport security cared about. As if the security officers had nothing better to do than read labels and figure out all sorts of foreign languages. 

He looked over at Rollins who patted down a guy's shoulders and back, and looked just as fed up with this day as Brock. 

There hadn't even been any new regulations, this week everyone just seemed to have forgotten that there were any in the first place. 

Usually, he managed to get at least one shift in fast-track security, but not this month as they were new colleagues getting trained at handling flight crews and diplomats. 

In front of him, the guy had finally found the bottle and handed it to Brock with sweaty fingers. 

Rollins would have taken his time, examining the lube and even reading the label out loud to punish the guy for holding up the entire queue, but Brock just wanted this guy to be out of his face. He checked if all of the guy's liquids were still within limits and gave the tray another ride through the scanner. 

The same thing happened twenty minutes later when a girl forgot that her make-up foundation fell under liquid regulations, and then an hour again when an older lady carried glasses of homemade jam and jelly in her purse. 

Brock forced a smile as she elaborated on her recipe while she squeezed the glasses into the small plastic bag alongside some face cream and conditioner. He didn't need anyone complain about him. Again. Sure, he had fewer complaints in his file than Rollins, but that didn't mean anything. The only reason Rollins wasn't let go of yet, was because he happily handled assholes and troublemakers without hesitations. He was the one yelling at a dissolving queue to get back in line. The one yelling at ignorant businessmen and drunken idiots alike. The only reason Rollins wasn't let go of yet was because he wasn't worried about being let down. And that confidence was priceless in airport security. 

Lucky for the old lady, the glasses came at just a little over three ounces each and he didn't have to throw them in the trash where water bottles and toiletries piled up already, and sent her on her way. 

He still had three hours until lunch break, but a glance down the queuing area and onto the flight schedule told him those were going to be long hours. 

* * *

"Looking tense, Brock," Rollins chirped, walking over to him with a grin plastered on his face. 

"What's gotten you in a good mood?" Brock asked, unpacking his sandwich and uncapping his coke. He yawned, waited for Rollins to settle down next to him before digging in. 

This area of arrivals was almost always empty, exits too far away for relatives and friends to wait here. And most of his colleagues chose to take advantage of the good weather for as long as it lasted. The forecast for the evening showed rain and there was hardly anything more accurate than an airport weather report. 

"You and I, we're going to wind down later at a birthday party," Rollins just said, sitting down opposite of him. Most airports didn't bother with cafeterias or staff rooms, apart from the pilot lounge of course, so this was were they spent most of their breaks. Thirty minutes and that was it. 

"Who's birthday?" Brock asked, not in the mood for plans. He was tired from the first half of their shift already and he had started looking forward to just going and staying home since the first ten minutes had passed in the morning. 

Rollins pretended he hadn't heard him, busy to get his hands on something to eat. 

"Whose birthday, Jack?" Brock asked again, eyeing him carefully over his food. 

"Falcon's," Rollins told him and shrugged, stuffing his mouth with some chips. 

"You're kidding me, right?" Brock shook his head, appetite wiped from his stomach. Fucking pilots with their fucking nicknames. With their fucking boyfriends. "Wilson?" he tried to clarify. 

"Barnes invited me," Jack grinned as Brock continued to shake his head in disbelief. "Said I should bring someone." 

"He meant a date, idiot," Brock said annoyed. "Not some rando from work." 

"What's the difference?" Jack asked, transporting the untouched half of Brock's sandwich onto his side of the seats. "Half of the staff is hooking up with each other anyway. Rogers has fucked himself through most of O'Hare by now." Rollins snorted, helped himself to Brock's coke as well. 

"You know Barnes can't stand me," Brock reminded him. "He would have never invited you knowing you'd ask me to come along. 

"That's precisely why I'm bringing you," Jack tells him. "For the fun," he shrugged. "Look," he said, unwrapping a chocolate chip cookie that looked too good for Rollins's mouth. "Everyone's at Wilson's parties, okay? The whole team. You're not going to miss it. Again," he added accusingly. 

"You can't still be mad about that Christmas party," Brock said, rubbing his eyes. "My cat was sick." 

"Sure," Rollins nodded sarcastically. "Poor Crossbones threw up all her food. When are you going to tell me what went down with you and Barnes anyway?" Jack asked, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. 

The truth was, Brock hadn't wanted to go. His history with Wilson's boyfriend aside, he hated seeing people from work in his private time. Especially pilots. Who could blame him with how little free time they had these days. He just liked to have it to himself. It wasn't personal. 

"Long story," Brock just said. He knew he'd never tell Jack about it. But he didn't need to draw more attention to the drama. Fortunately, it only came up every once in a while. Twice a year maybe. When Barnes threw that ridiculous Christmas party for all of Wilson's colleagues. Or on his birthday. Otherwise everyone, including Jack, forgot about it. 

He seemed to have already forgotten about it now, pulling out his phone to forward Brock the address. 

"I haven't said yes yet," Brock argued although he knew it was futile. Maybe part of him even believed that he owed Rollins for all the times he had refused to go. 

After all, he and Rollins were something like friends. And Brock didn't have many friends. 

"You haven't said no yet either though," Rollins caught his hesitation. "So, nine sharp. Don't be late." 

* * *

He still didn't want to go when he showered work off his body later that day, when he picked something clean and decent to wear that he was still comfortable in. When he filled Crossbone's bowl with dry food and scratched her head gently before lacing his boots. 

He still didn't want to go as he stepped outside and decided he could just walk those couple of blocks. Still didn't want to go when he pulled the restaurant door open and prepared himself for the chaos of social interactions and complicated interpersonal relations inside. 

* * *

The air was sticky and warm and the place smelled of garlic bread and champagne. He'd been here before a couple of times, sometimes ordered himself a pizza to take back home. He liked the owners, but he knew most of his colleagues did, he knew Wilson and Barnes adored the place, so he never bothered to stay longer than necessary. 

It was five minutes after nine, and he had expected Jack to wait outside. To wait by the door at least, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sweat gathered just below Brock's hairline, as he glanced around, frantically on the inside, but managed to hold his composure otherwise. 

He dodged the groups of co-workers in the crowd to find a quiet spot to check his phone. If Rollins had gotten caught up, he surely would have left him a text. 

The screen lit up with blinding urgency and Brock quickly fumbled to turn the brightness down. No missed calls, no texts. Because he didn't know what else to do he checked his emails too. Then the news. Then what was playing at the movie theatre around the corner. Then he checked his messages again. 

"Someone stood you up?" the voice startled him, but Brock was trained not to be startled, so he calmly looked up, eyes falling onto Steve goddamn Rogers. Darling pilot and everybody's sweetheart. 

Eyebrows raised in surprise as Steve leaned against the wall next to him, Brock slid his phone back into his pocket. 

With his shirt two sizes too small and his low-cut hip-hugging jeans that probably buttoned just below his pubic line, Rogers was looking like a nineties boybander. Only his face gave his age away. Barely. If Brock hadn't checked his passport and security ID thousands of times, he would have guessed him about five years younger than his actual age. 

"Something like that," Brock said. He went for a casual smile. He could already tell that Rogers enjoyed the attention. But he didn't need to know about Rollins screwing with him. "But you know what they say," he added to deflect, "one man's trash-," on that he simply decided to wink at Rogers to throw him off. He was paid to look pathetic next to pilots strutting the airport hallways like they owned the place, he wasn't going to look pathetic in front of Steve here. 

Rogers laughed, showing off his perfect shiny white teeth and Brock cringed at how stupid he looked. Stupid and tempting all at once. As always. It hadn't gone past Brock that Rogers was a flirt. More than that. He was a straight up whore for anyone giving him the time of day. Dude loved to be the center of attention. 

In that, Steve wasn't any different from most pilots, but Brock respected that he always kept his mouth shut during security checks. Brock would swear that some pilots left some forgotten coins in the pocket of their pants on purpose, just to see security officers go down to their knees to pat their legs. Steve wasn't like that, so Brock didn't feel the need to rush out of this little small talk immediately. 

"You a friend of Sam's?" Rogers asked. It was a trick question but he seemed determined to keep the conversation going. Brock didn't mind, because although Steve was a sight for sore eyes anyday, he was a straight-up treat without that ridiculous uniform. Brock wasn't above admitting that to himself. Though he would never reveal that to Jack. To any of the guys from security. And he'd rather die than let Steve Rogers know how beautiful he was to him. Ridiculously beautiful. 

"Friend of a friend," Brock just said, wishing said friend would finally show up. "Same friend that stood me up." 

"Not cool," Steve said with a sympathetic expression. Not pity. But no selfless empathy either. There was something like a content smugness in the lines of his face, something that was pleased with the situation. "Good thing though that all of Sam's friends are fantastic people," he added, honest appreciation in his voice that Brock didn't share. "Real gems." 

"Seems like it," Brock said. He didn't give a fuck about Wilson's friends. That didn't mean though that he had to outright insult Rogers by saying so. 

He glanced at Steve, who was a _ gem _ when it came to looks, but there was hardly anything beyond that. Something about him was off. Though he always made an effort to appear genuine and welcoming, there was something distinctly fake about him. Something that felt almost inhuman. Brock had to look away. Somewhat desperate by now, he let his eyes roam the room for any sign of Jack. 

He could feel the awkwardness of the following silence approach as another voice forced itself in between him and Rogers. 

"There you are!" It was Barnes, just a couple of feet away in one second, shielding Steve from Brock in the next, so forceful and rude that Brock had to leave his spot and move to the side. 

He hadn't expected a warm hello. He hadn't expected to be met with any friendly gesture. But he hadn't expected to be flat out ignored either. 

Barnes looked good. Better his grown man than the boyish young recruit that Brock remembered. Life was funny like that. Crossing their paths again. Was ironic like that. That fucking song that wormed its way into Brock's head. He needed to get away from them. 

"I'll get myself another beer," he said quickly, registering Steve's tense body as he nodded his goodbye. Somehow his shirt seemed to have shrunk another size. Fabric even tighter over his muscles. Maybe they needed to get away from each other. Barnes certainly thought so, tugging on Steve's arm. He felt spite rise in his stomach, but he reminded himself that he was too fucking old to act on it. This wasn't high school. This wasn't a summer job where nothing really mattered. He needed to be responsible. 

He had already moved a couple of steps, when he heard Steve call after him. "Find me later," he told him, bespeaking the spite that sat heavy in Brock's chest. 

He forced one hand down the pocket of his pants, tried to make it look casual instead of aggressively nervous. He knew he wasn't well liked here. Among co-workers that weren't part of the security team. Hell, he wasn't necessarily well liked within the security team. Respected, yes. Well liked, not really. None of his colleagues would ever have the balls to say so though. Of course not. They were scared of him. They were scared of him and Rollins. The latter he understood. Rollins was a mad man, a scary guy, no doubt about it. Brock was different. Quiet. Too quiet. That was scary in different terms. 

Someone here and there greeted him hesitantly. To be polite. Someone slapped his shoulder as he passed by. Rollins was still MIA. 

Down at the bar, he didn't mind standing alone. He pulled out his phone again to send Jack another text and ordered two beers. Rollins had to show sooner or later. 

He took the first sip when the bartender's hand had barely left the bottle, Brock's fingers slipping along its neck, cold and wet. It calmed him. He was going to survive the night. 

It was an attitude that didn't get people anywhere. He was going to do more than survive. More than make it through. He was, in fact, going to enjoy this. If only to rub it in Jack's face during their next shift together. 

Brock prayed that Rollins hadn't been held up by something serious, otherwise he'd look like the biggest asshole. 

It was only a second later that his phone finally lit up with a notification, the long awaited reply. 'Running late,' it read, 'got held up at work.' 

Brock frowned. Rollins's shift had ended with his own hours ago. They hadn't been short staffed this week either, no need for Jack to pick a second shift. And back to back on top of that. Brock was pretty sure there were regulations to limit risks of overworked security personnel too. It seemed more likely that it was just an excuse, a bad one at that, because Jack didn't want him to know the truth. 

Brock sighed at the untouched second beer that he had ordered in hopeful spirit. Sometimes optimism was the worst guidance. He turned to check out the people and groups around him. Some part of him, a part he chose to deliberately ignore, noted the normalcy all around. The regular faces and regular bodies. He had been unlucky enough to run into Rogers within his first fifteen minutes. A sight that had ruined everyone else for him. Visually at least. He was desensitized now, to the ordinary beauty. His eyes craved another fix, another visual treat, and Brock hated himself for it. Rogers was infuriatingly handsome, but with how many hands had been on him, with how many cocks had been inside him, he was equally disgusting to Brock as he was attractive. 

All of Brock was repulsed by the realization that he didn't want to just look at him. That he wanted to talk to him too. That it hadn't been half as bad as he thought it'd be. That maybe he hadn't faked all his smiles. 

He almost groaned in annoyance and frustration when he grabbed the beer in defeat, making his way back towards the other part of the restaurant. 

The air was hotter here, loud and suffocating, where people chatted around the tables and everywhere in between. He spotted a couple of girls dancing at the side, there was music but it was barely audible over the cacophony of voices. Birthday candles were burning everywhere, a safety hazard Brock disapproved of. It made for gentle lighting though. 

Brock didn't believe in fate, but he stopped dead when Steve's back appeared out of nowhere. Right in front of him. Rogers alone, neck craning. He was looking for someone too. Probably Barnes. Or Wilson. 

It didn't matter. Brock had made up his mind about the beer, he wasn't going to carry it around. Wasn't going to let it go warm before he had a chance to drink it himself. 

He reached out, arm feeling shorter than usual and tipped Rogers's shoulder, regretting what he was getting himself into. 

"Beer?" he asked and offered the bottle to Rogers who sported a genuine grin since the second he'd turned around. Brock wouldn't deny that it was nice. It was nice. Seeing the recognition in his eyes and the corners of his mouth lifting. Not too many people were happy to see him. Ever. 

"You're a lifesaver," Rogers added, words putting emphasis on his smile. It was difficult to ignore it. "Thanks," he said, hand coming up to take the bottle from Brock. 

Meanwhile Brock allowed himself another look. Rogers was like a fucking painting in an art gallery. He looked nice enough from a distance, but there was so much more to discover when he was close. Too much. Overwhelming details. Head to toe. 

It was easier to just focus on his eyes. On the conversation. On anything but his physique. His goddamn body. 

"Cheers," Brock said, somewhat helplessly. He gently tapped his own bottle against Steve's. Trying to distract himself. Calm himself with the alcohol. But his thoughts went elsewhere despite it. Because of it. 

Because of Rogers who couldn't even drink a fucking beer without making it about sex. Lips wet and open, tonguing at the rim of the bottle before he even considered drinking it. And then not so much drinking it as working it down his throat, hips and chest craning toward Brock's body like goddamn flowers towards the fucking sun. 

"How's work on the ground?" Rogers asked, looking at him as if he hadn't just shown off his entire body. While drinking. The least exceptional of human actions. 

Rogers was an asshole like that. No doubt that he knew exactly what he was doing. No doubt that he knew exactly what he looked like doing it. Zero chance that he hadn't noticed Brock's glances. Little drops of longing sprinkled all over his body. Reluctant longing. Brock wasn't blind and his taste wasn't particularly unconventional. But he considered himself above empty and vain superficiality. 

This situation wasn't about it though. They weren't flirting. Brock wasn't. Couldn't allow himself. He didn't like being torn like this. 

"Pays alright," Brock let him know. He noticed then that he had started peeling back the label of his bottle. He hated how it made him look. Nervous. Insecure. Like he couldn't handle Steve. He handled worse than Rogers every day on the job. He was better than this. "Hours could be better," he added, trying to regain some ground with a more casual, confident tone. "Promised myself I'd stop working shifts once I hit forty." Upon this, a small question lit up in Steve's eyes. Curiosity. "Turned forty in January," Brock added, internally scolding himself for reacting to Steve's expression like that. Immediately giving him what he didn't even need to ask for. He took another sip from the bottle in an attempt to calm himself. Give himself a fresh start. "Worked the night shift nine times just this month." 

Steve's face was sympathetic, although Brock didn't particularly mind the night shift. It was calm mostly. Families and groups preferred to travel during the day. With all that cargo traffic taking off, even layovers were scarce. But the irregular sleeping schedule was taking a toll on him finally. He struggled to adjust. And once he did, the shifts were swapped again. It was a nightmare, full of migraines, insomnia and a torturous lack of appetite. Instead he woke in hunger whenever he had managed to fall asleep. He was jetlag without going anywhere. 

"O'Hare's lucky to have you," Steve said to Brock's surprise. "All of you," he went on. "Say what you want about queues at check-in and boarding, but I've never heard any of the pilots or cabin crews complain about security held-ups." He was trying and it was almost charming. Brock wasn't often complimented at work, neither from travellers nor from his superiors. He wasn't used to it, but it felt nice. 

"That's 'cause you guys just breeze through priority," Brock said immediately. Trying to downplay Steve's kind words. "Everyone else complains. Trust me." He laughed. Laughed about how awful it got at times. "They complain plenty," he assured him. 

Brock's job was as much to keep people safe as it was Steve's job. But travellers barely recognized security procedures as anything other than annoying. The people on the ground were treated as shitty as any other service personnel while pilots were hailed as mighty heroes. 

"You like flying?" Steve asked, as if he could read Brock's thoughts. 

"Depends on the leg room," Brock said. Laughed again. The truth was he hated flying. And he barely did so. Hadn't taken a trip in years. Flying just wasn't for him. It was irritating. Cabin pressure messing with his ears, air conditioning messing with his throat. The food was bad, the seats were too narrow and the tickets were too expensive. 

"Fair enough," Rogers told him. Brock appreciated the fact that he didn't try to argue. Though everyone knew that Steve loved his job as much as he loved to get with everyone he met on it. "Your folks from here?" Rogers added. 

The question left a foul taste in Brock's mouth as he shook his head. "New York," he told him. "Lower East Side." 

"Manhattan," Steve echoed, pretending to be impressed. 

"Yours?" Brock asked, realizing that he never thought of Steve as someone with a hometown. Someone with family around. 

"Brooklyn," Rogers said, bit of pride spreading across his face. Across his entire body, really. 

"What made you leave?" Brock asked. He couldn't picture Steve still being close to his parents. To any siblings. People with stable family relations simply didn't live like Rogers did. Didn't do what Rogers did. They didn't have rumors following them around, stories, myths even of their promiscuities. People cared what their parents thought about them. 

"Work takes you places," Rogers said, avoiding the question gracefully. Brock nodded, feeling his assumptions validated. "You want to check out the buffet?" Steve asked, deflecting. Family didn't seem to be a topic he wanted to dwell on. But neither had been work or flying. It seems Rogers just wasn't the type to commit. Neither in relationships nor conversations. 

It would have been a good moment to cut himself loose, to excuse himself and find someone else to talk to. Brock wished once more that Rollins would finally show up to give him a reason. But Brock couldn't spot him anywhere. Nor anyone else who may have wanted to have Brock around. 

"I don't want to keep you," Rogers said. He must have caught Brock's distraction. His discomfort even. He glanced towards the crowd, the same way Brock had just a second ago, looking for a way out now too. 

When Steve turned, Brock's hand snapped out in reflex, stopping Rogers by the elbow. He looked at Brock, with patience rather than confusion. But confusion was what messed with Brock's head. He didn't want Steve to go. He didn't want to stagger through the room aimlessly for another fifteen minutes only to resign and leave unnoticed. And although Steve wasn't who Brock usually liked to spend his time with, it would make for a good story to tell Rollins later. 

"I don't know many people here," Brock admitted. He didn't knew Steve either. Not really. But Rogers's company felt strangely empowering. The way he focused his attention on Brock. He was a good-looking guy and it subconsciously boosted Brock's confidence to have him around. Rogers was easy though, Brock reminded himself. He didn't have standards. "I feel like I'd be keeping you," Brock said, trying to protect himself and fish for a compliment all the same. He was being pathetic and he was aware of it. 

"No," Steve said then, smiling. He had a nice smile. Nice-ish. More genuine now. Not fake like the smiles they were trained to use at work. "I see these people every other day," Rogers assured him. "It's nice to talk to someone new for a change." 

For a moment, all they did was look at each other, assessing their options. Weighing the pros and cons. And Brock felt his chest tighten. It had been a long time since anyone had watched him like this. With an intensity like Steve's. Since anyone had made him feel like this. 

Special. 

God, he was even ashamed thinking it. 

It wasn't a conscious decision to move closer. It wasn't a decision at all. It was Steve's body in that goddamn tiny shirt. His eyes and the tender lines of his face that pulled Brock in without abandon. Without mercy. 

"You want to start dinner with cake?" Brock asked, trying to break the moment with the violence of words. Of voice. Break himself apart from how much he wanted to not be alone tonight. To have someone by his side. But Steve only laughed, casual and tender, not taking offense. 

And he didn't leave his side after that. Watched Brock overindulge in pizza rolls as they tasted themselves through all kinds of finger food and buffet treasures. Brock ordered another round of beers and Steve convinced him to try something else once it was his turn. 

Brock wasn't really the cocktail type of guy so he picked something simple yet sweet, the white russian for the coffee liquor mainly, and Steve seemed impressed enough with his choice. He watched Brock intently, the way he did so many times this evening, as Brock took a first sip, ice cold creamy liquid all over his tongue. 

"Any good?" Steve asked, and Brock nodded. Maybe he shouldn't still be drinking. Two beers had been fine. There was no need to be hungover in the morning. Falcon's birthday just wasn't worth it. 

"You trying to get me drunk?" Brock asked, smiling. Maybe they were flirting. 

Maybe _ he _ was flirting. 

Fuck. 

Steve shook his head, glanced down to his own drink. "Happy, I think," he said, almost shy. He didn't sound like himself, didn't even look like himself when he said it. "Trying to make you happy." 

Brock smiled out of reflex, that fake work smile that he hated on everyone including himself, before he realized that to Steve he had looked sad. That Rogers may even have pitied him. The bitter taste in his mouth was back. And he was unable to wash it down. Even with the alcohol. 

Of course that was when Steve suggested joining his friends' table, the one not only Wilson but Barnes was seated at. 

"I don't think this is-," Brock tried, but Rogers waved him off and pulled him along. 

_ A good idea. _

It wasn't. It wasn't a good idea. But Rogers was fucking oblivious to it. Naive to an almost contagious degree. He had a hand on Brock the entire time. Shoulder, arm, knee. He didn't leave him to fend for himself. Brock caught his cheeks redden from time to time, noticed his body react to Steve's proximity. To the way he continued to flirt with Brock even in front of his friends. Self-assured and shamelessly. 

None of the others commented on it though. It was obvious they were used to this kind of behavior. 

Brock was relieved once Steve suggested to hang back at the bar and settle down there, just the two of them away from his friends and their sideways glances. They must have seen countless people in Brock's place. Men and women and every gender beyond and between. Falling victim to Steve's charms. Or simply his availability. They saw in Brock someone replaceable. Someone disposable. Just another face in a constant stream of hook-ups. And Brock was ashamed he hadn't told them otherwise. Hadn't told Steve off yet. 

Instead, he obediently answered all of Steve's questions. Work and weather and hobbies. Rogers was so good at engaging him that Brock forgot at times that he was just one of many. That none of this was really about him. About getting to know him. That to Steve, this was about sex. All the talk about baseball and politics. About travelling and growing up past that stage of extended youth. Past young adults and young professionals. Past the stage of new beginnings and into deep rooted routines. All the things that fooled Brock into thinking there could have been a connection. An understanding. All of it was about sex. 

Part of Brock craved to be fooled despite that knowledge. Part of him wanted to play dumb and be seduced. 

"You're a great guy, Brock," Rogers told him, his eyes hooded, tipsy and hungry. "It's a shame we never had a chance to talk earlier." Somehow the alcohol made Steve even more beautiful. Confident and relaxed and so goddamn open about what he wanted. About what he wanted from Brock. What he wanted from everyone. 

It was hard to hate him for it though. Then and there, Brock didn't even want to hate him. He wanted to know what it'd be like to be Rogers. And to be with him was the next best thing. He smiled down at his glass, wondering which of his drinks had been the one too many. The one that had struck down his defenses. When he looked back up at Steve they'd not only been torn apart but burned to the ground. And Brock hated himself for it. 

"You want to take this talk someplace private?" Steve asked, cards all open on the table, daring Brock to fold. "Maybe do a little more than talk?" 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈🙈🙈

Brock wanted to swallow, but his throat was dry and his lips were numb. He didn't expect Rogers to come on to him this fast. This deliberately. Yet, he couldn't look away. Didn't want to. He didn't want to be stared down by Steve. Not in this moment. 

This was just how things were these days. Dating, parties, sex. He'd bet ten bucks that this wasn't even an unusual situation for Steve. It was just another day for him. 

But it wasn't to Brock. He wasn't used to this. To any of this. His last relationship had ended years ago. And he hadn't been with anyone since. Didn't know how to go about it. Now sex was handed to him on a silver platter. Sex with Rogers. 

"Let's go get your jacket," Brock told him already on his feet. Tonight he'd just be like everybody else. 

* * *

Brock guided them out of the restaurant and into the cab. Part of him was rushing with the anticipation now, part of him was rushing because he didn't want to be seen leaving with Rogers. Maybe Steve didn't care what people thought about him, but Brock didn't need his team to lose whatever respect they still had for him. 

If he'd been alone, he would have just walked home. But a twenty minute walk could sober anyone up and he didn't want to change his mind about this. He craved to be touched now, to have someone in bed beside him. It had been too goddamn long. 

They didn't share a single word until Steve offered to pay for the short ride and Brock didn't fight him on it. Though money wasn't as tight as it used to be in his twenties, he still had to watch out and keep it together. 

All the way up to his apartment, Brock felt Steve's eyes on his back. Felt him watch every movement. It was unsettling and arousing at once. That's just what Steve did to him. Twisting the sentiments until conflicting emotions somehow started to compliment each other. 

He still felt the gaze even when Steve pretended to not pay attention to the embarrassing way he fumbled with the keys. 

"Don't let the cat slip out," Brock warned, as he stepped inside. He was used to watch out for Crossbones adventures, but since Steve didn't have pets, Brock guessed he was rather careless with these things. 

When she didn't show immediately, he excused himself for a second to see if she was hiding in her favorite spot in the living room. Being all business about them, Steve didn't move, waited patiently. He wasn't interested in Brock's life. Brock's cat. He was interested in sex. In Brock's bedroom only.

So this was where Brock led him just a minute later. 

It was impossible to deny that Steve looked completely out of place. Never in a million years would Brock had expected him to ever stand here. In this spot. Shoulders tight but not tense. Eyes full of silent joy and life. Of calm self-confidence. And of quiet appreciation of who he was with. 

And once more Brock felt the shame of feeling extraordinary under Steve's gaze. Special. He hated himself still, but he couldn't stop thinking it. 

Carefully, Brock leaned in, desire to kiss Steve tingling in his belly and up his chest. He felt stupid for feeling young. For feeling vulnerable. So he pulled back less than a second later. 

"I won't bite," Rogers almost whispered, causing Brock to smile. Causing courage to return. 

This time, he didn't waste another moment. He went all in. Kissed Steve with his whole body, the way everyone wanted to be kissed in the movies. 

He pulled Steve in with a hand on his neck until their lips finally touched, tender for just one second, then harder and with more pressure. Almost in revenge. Or desperate passion. 

Brock couldn't tell when it happened, lost in the give and take of the kiss, when it happened that he handed himself over entirely, Steve taking over. Taking from him whatever he wanted. He was gentle when he did so, lips tender and tongue slow, savoring the moment. It was different from how Brock remembered kisses. It was stupid to compare. But he couldn't stop himself. Couldn't stop himself from noting all the ways in which Steve was different. More passionate, more in control. More elegant than anyone else Brock had ever kissed before. More assertive still. There was already sex in the kiss. There was more than attraction and they had moved so fast past their flirt that Brock felt dizzy. There was so little time to gather thoughts and feelings. 

So little room.

Already Brock had soaked Steve up, he was everywhere. Body and mind alike. The smell of his cologne, his aftershave, the hair products, it all clung to Brock like morning fog on his way to an early shift. He could almost see his own breath with how foreign he was in Steve's realm. The intruder, the disturbance. 

Steve didn't seem to mind at all, relished in their differences instead. The height, the shape of their shoulder and the bridges of their noses. The age and the urgency. Steve let Brock's strangeness be, and Brock let Steve take hold of him whole in return. 

His thoughts were all over the place so he registered it too late. The wordless indication, the hands on his ass, it only made sense when Steve was already on his knees. 

And suddenly Brock was violently aware of his body again, aware of how little they had in common, of how little time there had been for trust to grow between them. Nervousness paved the way for insecurity once more. He had never had this. A one night stand. 

"Steve," he tried. Sure, he had kissed people before. Strangers. People he never saw again. But he's never moved further than that. Or as fast as this. "You don't have to." 

"Too fast?" Steve asked. Maybe Brock just was this obvious. An open book at the bedside table. For Steve to flip through but never read whole. The thought of undiscovered pages aching in Brock's chest. He was more than that, more than those shorter words that Steve strung together, skimming through the lines to make sense of the paragraph. 

An old therapist taught Brock to swap 'too' with 'very'. No, this wasn't too fast. Brock shook his head. Very fast, yes. But fast wasn't bad, was it? 

"Not if you want to," he offered, watching Steve who had to look up at him. He was still beautiful like this. Graceful even. He was still elegant. Collected. Calm. He radiated the kind of trust that Brock was searching for. 

"It'll be my pleasure," Steve assured him. Brock had his hands on his jaw and Steve had his hands on his thighs. Brock liked this. He didn't feel powerful, knowing where Steve had been. Steve wanted this and he wanted this always. From anyone. But it still made Brock feel like he had something to give. Made him feel merciful. 

His cock was pressed against the front of his pants, already thick with arousal and filling up fully once Steve tugged at the zipper. It was hard to watch, to watch without feeling overwhelmed, but it was harder to look away. The first touch of Steve's finger sent a shiver down Brock's back. 

They worked together then, four hands fumbling with the waistband of his pants, of his boxers, impatient and rougher than necessary. It wasn't just Brock who openly wanted it now, who wanted to see Steve's lips wrap around him. Steve's body was tense from the anticipation like no one else had ever been with Brock. His neck, the joints of his fingers, and his wrist. 

It wasn't just his mouth that was waiting, ready to take in what Brock had to offer. It seemed it was just what Rogers did. Every action a full body effort. Now he was going to suck Brock off with every inch of it. 

There was no hint of shame anywhere in Steve's face when he dipped his tongue into a little puddle of precome that was on Brock's hips, evidence of just how much Brock had lied to himself, trying to convince himself this wasn't the best thing happening to him all year. 

There was shame in the moan that slipped past Brock's lips at the sight, Steve's shiny rosy lips and the naked tip of his tongue. Brock's skin tingling everywhere around the spot, his eyes fixed on Steve, substitute for the hand he couldn't spare, holding his own boxers down for Steve's mouth to take him in eventually. 

Steve took his time though, using his tongue on Brock's body like a tracing fingertip, forcing and almost unbearable intimacy over them. It was just bare skin, taste probably laced with leather and sweat. But Brock's heartbeat echoed down his stomach, pulsing under Steve's kisses with a long forgotten life. 

"You don't half-ass things, do you?" The words just fell out before Brock had a chance to think about it. Before he could second guess if he was even capable of talking just yet. 

"Not once in my life," Steve told him, head and shoulders pulling back as his hands came up to the base of Brock's cock. 

Rogers was used to this. Was skilled and experienced, and Brock knew. Was reminded of it every second now. Just by how casual Steve handled this. Handled Brock's dick while down on his knees. Brock wished he didn't care, wished that it didn't make him borderline angry. When Steve opened his mouth, Brock gave into the urge to reach out, to stall, to touch with the tip of a finger first where Steve wanted the tip of his cock instead. 

Steve's mouth was hot and his tongue was soft to the touch, but Brock felt the muscles tense under the pad of his thumb. The unexpected intrusion wasn't what Steve had been after, but he held still and let Brock do his thing. With how little Steve moved, with how silent he kept his objections, Brock knew he was in over his head. He'd never be enough for Captain Steve Rogers. Nervousness crept up his shoulders and spine, settled in a sweat-damp neck. 

Part of Brock wanted to turn this around. See how far he could go. If he could start fucking Steve's mouth with his finger first, exhausting his beautiful lips and straining his jaw, just so that Brock wouldn't fear embarrass himself. That instead Steve would be the one struggling, the one forced to put extra work into taking Brock's cock later. 

Over Brock's indecision, Steve started stroking him, casual, patient, and with a tender grip. 

Feeling caught with thoughts like that, of using Steve and making use of his place there on his knees, Brock slipped his finger out of Steve's mouth then. This was who Steve was. But this wasn't who Brock was. 

"This isn't your first, is it?" Steve asked then out of the blue. Maybe Brock being careful gave him away. Maybe Brock being gentle gave him away. Steve was probably used to a different treatment. He probably liked that better. 

"First in a while," Brock admitted. If Steve wanted out now, he knew where the door was. The thought only passed Brock's mind for a split second, but for a nervous moment Brock feared he'd do just that. "Don't know if you'd appreciate this ending prematurely." 

He didn't really know where the courage for his honesty came from. Maybe it was Rogers's endless patience. Maybe it was the only way sex with Steve was worth anything to him. 

"What if I make it really bad?" Steve joked and Brock couldn't stop himself from laughing about it. The nervousness, the tension, it wanted to go somewhere. Laughing was a welcoming outlet. Welcomed and appreciated. And Brock felt himself soften for Rogers once more. 

Heart-wise only. 

Dick-wise, he was still hard. Still wanting to move forward. 

"Be my guest," Brock encouraged him, tried to relax and hand himself over. Determined once more to simply enjoy whatever Steve was going to do to him. 

He felt old suddenly, too old to be sucked off. To be sucked off with pleasure. But Steve worked him over as if he was brand-new. Wrapping his lips around Brock as if he was going in for a kiss, as if Brock's dick was worthy of longing and love still. Brock's own satisfaction filled the back of his throat first, then the room and the air around them with low moans. 

Steve was awfully quiet. He was too well versed for sloppy noises or any hint of discomfort. He's had worse than Brock. Different guys. Different cocks. Maybe two at once even. 

The thought caused Brock to falter, skin shivering and chest tightening. He felt a little sorry for Steve even. Reached out with a finger to remind himself that he was vulnerable somewhere, under layers of small talk and fake smiles, layers of whored-out skin and well practiced moves. 

Steve took him in whole, throat closing when the head of Brock's cock moved past any long forgotten gag reflexes. 

"Holy shit," Brock mumbled, words slipping out beyond his control. He could see why others wouldn't say 'no' to Steve either. Why anyone probably hadn't said 'no' to Steve ever. 

Steve was back at kissing Brock's cock like he still had something to prove, like he still had to convince him, to seduce him. Tongue playing along the shaft in a proper make out session and Brock was suddenly convinced that Steve didn't like this any less than kissing him. Kissing anyone. Than kissing. That he maybe even liked this better. It turned Brock's stomach but turned him on all the same. 

He could almost see it on Steve's face how little he wanted to part with Brock's dick. How he had to convince himself of it. 

"So," he said, unusually hesitant. "What else haven't you done in a while?" Steve asked, staring up at Brock as if glancing at the cock still in front of him would be enough to change his mind. 

Steve looked hot. Willing and needy, and Brock pitied him so much, he wanted to give to Steve without abandon. If Steve's self-confidence really was that low that he had to bend over for every dick willing to try him, then Brock wouldn't deny him. But he'd be nice about it.

"Steve," Brock said gently, tried to clear his head by running his fingers through his hair. "Just-," he started, looking for the right words. The right words for someone like Steve. "Just get on the bed," he told him. "I'll fuck you, if you want that." 

"Sounds like a solid plan," Steve said and his face lit up at the prospect. 

Brock helped him up, helped him undress, trying to detangle his fantasies from real life. Trying to make sense of the body in front of him. Its desires and its history. The way it was stuck in the cycle of arousal and relief like a broken record. Maybe in need of someone to set it straight. Someone like Brock. 

Brock who kissed Steve at random as he helped him lose his clothes. Who couldn't stop watching every one of Steve's movements. And what had once been an attempt to be helpful turned into Brock being in the way. 

"You got a condom and lube?" Steve asked, already getting comfortable on the bed. 

It took a second for Brock's brain to get back on track, Steve's naked body so foreign, so different. So enticing. "Yeah," he said absently, taking another look before moving to retrieve whatever they'd need. His hands weren't visibly shaking when he opened the drawer on his nightstand, but they didn't feel steady at all. 

"Are you going to help me out?", Steve asked, lounging on the sheets now and smiling as he waited for Brock. 

Just like back in the restaurant, Brock was reminded of how different Steve was from anyone else he had met at work. Extraordinarily handsome. Skilled and smart. Unusually arrogant though too. Self-absorbed. 

Here he seemed different. Seemed to want this not just for himself but for the both of them. Wanted to do this _with_ Brock instead of doing things _to_ him. Or having things done to his body. Brock didn't really know what to do with it. 

"You mean finger you?" Brock asked. It had been a while too since he'd last done that. He hadn't given it much thought before now. Had somehow assumed Steve didn't need much foreplay. Or any at all. 

"Yes," Steve told him though. "I mean finger me." He seemed a little surprised by Brock's question. 

From what Brock had heard over the years though, from Jack and basically every other member of his team, he knew that Steve didn't need to be opened before taking a cock. Sure, some of it was locker room talk, stupid exaggerations. But even if Brock would drop all of the stories floating around from his memory, he'd still seen those two or three pictures on a flight attendant's phone. 

So Steve's question had to be about something else. "You into that?" Brock wondered, scolding himself for forcing Steve to spell it out. 

"I am," Steve said, he didn't look embarrassed about it. "Is that a problem?" he asked. 

Brock wasn't as virginal as he probably came off to Steve. He'd been on all sides of sex before. He knew what to do. He'd just never done it with anyone like Steve. Someone who needed so much from their partner. 

"No," he said then, feeling shitty for his hesitation. "No problem," he added immediately. "'Course not." 

He could do this. He could be enough for a guy like Steve. He could make him feel good. 

Brock felt heavy and stiff, placed condoms and lube on the bed to unlace his boots. Buy himself some time. 

Looking back down at Steve, another chaotic wave of emotions washed over him. More pity and arousal. Shame over how much Steve aroused him. Anger. Shame on behalf of Steve. 

He wasn't gentle when he grabbed Steve above his foot to pull his legs apart. Not only making room between them for his body. Making room for those feelings too. Feelings much bigger than him. 

Steve sank into the sheets, his body a prayer to his single purpose. To be fucked. 

When Brock caught a glimpse of the precome leaking from his cock, he took hold of himself and guided the wet tip to the softer fold where Steve's thigh met his ass. He wanted Steve to feel what he did to him, but instead the sensation cut through his own composure and caused him to moan in satisfaction. 

He pushed his thumb through the thin slick film, realizing how little of Steve's body he had touched. How much there was still to discover yet. Wondering if it was wrong. If he should have gone for the back of his leg first, maybe a hand over his chest, a bare forearm or even his lower back. It was all too, no, very fast. Steve didn't mind, obviously, but Brock felt dizzy with how quickly they've arrived here. He was still wearing all of his clothes for god's sake, while Steve's naked butt was eagerly awaiting stimulation. 

"You got a nice ass for someone sitting in the cockpit all day," Brock said, moving his hands all over the curves of Steve's butt. 

Steve liked it, Brock could tell. They'd finally arrived at what Steve had been after the whole time. 

"I jog," Steve told him. Of course, he did. And he probably did so at six in the morning too. 

But Brock wouldn't complain. Not with that kind of ass in his palms. He didn't want to spread Steve right away, didn't want to spoil the view just yet. Here, like this, he could still imagine Steve hadn't been fucked by half of Chicago's population. That he was just a good-looking guy, somehow interested in someone like Brock. Not this ragingly horny and arrogant prick he vaguely knew from work. The last time he'd seen Steve's hole was on newbie's phone during lunch break, screen cracked and oily fingerprints all over the display. It had been passed around half the group before Brock caught a glimpse of the gaping mess. 

Sure, there were worse things on the internet, infinitely worse, and usually Brock wasn't one to judge. Sex was sex and porn was porn. Nothing to be done about it. No need to sweet-talk the fucked-up-ness that oftentimes accompanied the act, far removed from the sentiment of love making. 

But there was something so infuriatingly shameless about how Rogers went about sex, that Brock found himself judging him despite all efforts to remain neutral. 

It was dumb and immature, tension building over the reveal, but he couldn't stop himself from holding his breath when he let his hands part Steve's cheeks to lay eyes on what should be the most private part of Steve's body. What Steve had turned into public property instead. 

Steve didn't squirm from his gaze, didn't tried to hide. And to Brock's utter shock he had no reason to.

None at all. 

"I don't think I've ever seen a prettier hole," Brock blurted, brain to mouth filter malfunctioning over the revelation that was Steve's ass. "It's almost-," he started, but had to take a second to just touch what lay so graceful and undisturbed in front of him. "It's almost too perfect," he stammered, glad now that Steve couldn't see his bewildered face. Everything on Steve was unbearably perfect. Sickening really. 

Steve blushed to the back of his neck, but his body curved into Brock's touch, relishing in the praise. Eager to show off more. 

"That turning you on?" Brock asked. "Hearing what a great ass you have? Being complimented on your asshole?" The questions were rhetorical and Steve didn't bother to reply. Maybe somewhere deep down he was still capable of embarrassment. Of sexual decency. 

Brock knew the answer anyway. The way Steve pushed his hips back, thighs trembling just slightly with the strain and the need to be touched. There was no doubt about the effects Brock's words had on him. No doubt that Steve, -- despite his body, the job, the money and his endless list of hookups --, ached to be praised. Ached to be appreciated. Ached to be loved even. 

Maybe he didn't think he was worth more than sex. Self-objectification was a thing after all, and it wasn't a healthy way to live. Steve needed to be reminded that he was more than body parts located below the waistline. 

Brock was gentle when he moved his hand over Steve's ass, his palms warm and dry, there was no need for nervousness anymore. Steve needed him. In more ways than one. 

It was obvious that Steve had been preparing for sex, probably part of his daily routine, thinking he had to be ready at all times. 

Brock felt sorry for him, sorry for what he had put his body through, the perfect hole in front of him. He traced Steve's rim with a tender finger, a silent apology for Steve's recklessness. He probably had no idea how much he had to offer in a stable relationship. Something that wasn't just based on physical pleasures. But true intimacy and comfort. 

Steve's entrance was soft beneath the tip of Brock's finger, of course it was, muscles loose and flexible from Steve's unnecessary adventures. 

Brock used just the slightest bit of pressure, but Steve's body opened up for him obediently, almost on reflex. 

Of course, it did. Brock chuckled, but he felt sorry for Steve still. "Only you wouldn't need lube to get fucked." Steve's body was used to this. Was used to stretch and intrusion. Steve's body was used. It was as simple as that. "I don't want to be the one ruining that good look for you though," Brock said confidently, reaching for the lube. 

No, Brock would be different. He would look after Steve, maybe the first time anyone had ever done that. 

He spread the lube on his fingers, but applied some directly on Steve's skin. If Steve liked being played with, he might as well do it right. 

Brock ran a finger from Steve's tailbone down between his cheeks, giving Steve a second to drive himself crazy over the anticipation. 

Brock had fingered a couple of guys in the past, had gently worked them open, massaging the tight ring until the muscle relaxed. Steve was different. Brock didn't have to put in any work. Instead his finger breached him without resistance. 

"Went right into that pretty entrance of yours," Brock said absently. It made more sense to him now that Steve had asked for this first. Sex must be frustrating for him, the enticing sensation of the first stretch lost forever. "You really like being played with, don't you?" Brock echoed his thoughts out loud. He rubbed his thumb over Steve's rim, but it barely reacted to the stimulation. 

Steve was quiet once more, almost shy now. Brock liked it, liked seeing this side of Steve, although he wouldn't have wanted to swap places. He could only imagine the humiliation Steve had to endure. 

But it was going to be okay. Brock was going to make this work. He added a bit more lube, ready to give Steve another one. 

He used two fingers first, not that it made a difference. They went in just as easy as just one. 

"This feel good?" Brock asked, careful not to embarrass Steve even more. He tried a couple of different angles until he hit the right spot and Steve's body twitched inside and out with the touch of Brock's fingers. 

"Shit," Steve said, amped up from Brock teasing his prostate. "Feels alright, yeah," he added, and Brock could immediately tell, he needed something else. More. 

"How about now?" Brock tried, pushing his ring finger inside Steve along with the other two. Brock didn't know any guys who took three so effortlessly as Steve did. Brock knew there were enough people out there who liked that in a bottom, who cared for a ready ass more than a tight one. Steve would be their wet dream, but Brock wasn't like that. Maybe on rare occasions he could see the appeal of a fucked open hole, but even then the emphasis was on 'fucked' not on 'open'. 

Brock did his best to hide these feelings from Steve though, it wasn't his fault that he had run into the wrong people. A lot of them. Things happened in life. 

"Yeah, better," Steve moaned, but his voice was barely there. He only found it again, when Brock forced his fingers apart inside of Steve, making him finally feel the stretch. "Fuck," Steve groaned, fists buried in the sheets beneath him. Judging by his reaction, this was what Steve wanted, what he needed, and Brock worried that he would be disappointed once it was just Brock's average sized cock. 

Brock wanted him to enjoy this too, and he didn't want to be remembered as Rogers's worst fuck. 

Brock eased his fingers back out, Steve's ass pliant as ever. The tender rim was loosely stretched over Brock's knuckles, but it wasn't enough for Steve still. He practically shoved his butt into Brock's face, whining as he wordlessly begged for more. 

"You want me to fuck you, Steve?" Brock asked despite seriously doubting now that he could ever satisfy him. 

"That was the plan," Steve reminded him, but something in his tone told Brock that he had his doubts, too, whether or not to go through with it now. 

"Just a second," Brock said, buying himself some time. He increased the stretch a little, pulling more of his splayed fingers free. 

"Brock," Steve panted, and Brock smiled. It was a small success but Steve was feeling it now. Was starting to enjoy it. 

"Don't worry, I got you," Brock assured him, changing the rhythm just slightly, twisting his hand to make Steve feel good all around. "I got what you need." 

Slowly, Brock was getting a good grip, literally, on how Steve's body worked, and Steve thanked him with small curses every now and then. 

Brock relaxed with the regained confidence and stopped worrying about disappointing Steve. He was too old for insecurities like that. Then Steve forced out more words. "Too much," he told Brock who stilled his fingers right away. 

He got that Steve was embarrassed, but that didn't mean he had to start lying. Lies had no place between them. Not here in Brock's bedroom. "It's okay," Brock told him. He didn't mind fingering Steve a little longer. "You're fine," he added, gently calling Steve on his bluff. "You'll just walk it off later. You're not even a little sore yet." 

Brock traced Steve's rim with his thumb to let him feel how loose he was still, three fingers in, he wasn't even close to his limit. "Don't worry," Brock assured him, voice deliberately tender and genuine. "I don't mind this," he added, although he had to admit to himself that it was a white lie on his part. It didn't bother him that Steve's bad decisions were written into his body, it wasn't his body's fault, but it was difficult to imagine this becoming part of his regular sex life. Not that Brock was imagining a future with Steve. He wasn't. He just knew that he wasn't by far the only one who needed a tighter fit. And he simply felt sorry for Steve and his chances to find something steady now. 

Just to make sure, he wasn't mistaken, he slid the tip of his thumb just half an inch under Steve's rim. Tugged it upwards with barely any strength until it slipped off the back of his nail. Steve's rim remained as lifeless as ever, still it looked impeccable, and Brock resigned, pulled his fingers free at once. 

"Wasn't too much now, was it?" Brock asked, checking Steve's rim, although he already knew he hadn't hurt Steve. Couldn't have. Aside from the mess of the lube, the skin was untarnished. Steve didn't answer, still ashamed that he hadn't been able to hide this from Brock. "Yeah, didn't think so," Brock said. "You don't have to lie to me, Steve," he added carefully. "I understand." 

There was nothing either of them could change about this right now. Sure, there were things Steve could try to recover some strength back there. And given his young age, he should probably start sooner rather than later, before his body wouldn't be able to recover as easily, but there was nothing that could be done now. 

"Poor thing," Brock muttered, words slipping out by accident. There was something so heart-wrenching watching the helpless worn-out rim of Steve's asshole, in contrast to the arrogant, self-assured and assertive prick Steve posed himself as at work. "Didn't think I would ever say this, but I could do this all day," Brock admitted. It wasn't what Brock would have asked for ever, what aroused Brock on any regular day, but he started to feel protective over Steve. Given the options he had, with guys who would just want to stuff him with anything obscenely wide, Brock decided then that Steve deserved better. Every negative thing that could be said about Steve would boil down to a defense mechanism. He had to overcompensate for this. 

"You're really something else, Steve," Brock said, taking some time to just caress Steve's back. "You're really special." 

Steve leaned into it, touch-starved, loved-starved, who could have blamed him. 

"Stay like this, alright?" Brock said, he wanted to finally get his clothes off. He wanted to fuck Steve when he was like this. Humbled. Appreciative of the little things. "I'm just going to roll on a condom." Brock's hands were steady as he undressed, as he got himself ready. Slippery still from the lube but calm. A lot of guys probably fucked Steve because he was easy. Because there was so little that couldn't be done to him. But Brock would fuck him responsibly. "Guess this is just going to be a walk in the park for you," he said as he lined himself up. Brock hadn't ever felt inadequate before, but he worried now. "Haven't changed your mind, have you?" he asked, scared that Steve wouldn't want to sleep with him anymore. Not with how little he would really feel from the penetration. 

"I'm good," Steve assured him. And Brock felt the relief in every part of his body. 

Brock's cock fit into Steve like a Cessna into a Boeing hangar, slipped in easier than a fish from the hand. 

Steve faked a couple of moans, either for Brock's benefit or because he was still trying to convince both of them that he was still somewhat snug. 

Because he didn't like those kinds of lies either, Brock shifted to hit Steve's sweet spot again, desperate to hear a more honest reaction. 

Fucking Steve didn't feel outright bad, it just didn't feel how anal sex was supposed to feel. It didn't feel as if Steve's body was pulling him in. Instead, Steve's inner walls seemed annoyingly still around Brock's cock. There were sex dolls out there that offered more than the shapeless insides of Steve's outwardly flawless asshole. 

Never before had Brock struggled to remain hard during sex, but the constant reminder of Steve's lewd behavior was the exact opposite of arousing. 

"Hold on," Brock said, felt bad for his failure to enjoy himself. He didn't want to make Steve feel worse about his situation. He brought a finger back up against the barren bland rim, knowing it was the only way. "Can I?" he asked, waiting for Steve who only nodded his confirmation. "Okay," Brock said gently. 

He felt with Steve and his disappointment to provide enough friction, hole useless to anyone with normal sexual interests, but he was relieved, too, that Steve didn't keep on denying the issue here. "I'll help you out," he assured him. With Steve's dignity in mind, he worked fast, didn't want to unnecessarily prolong this awkward moment. Both of them were already painfully aware that Steve could take the finger without any strain or effort. And this was the only option they had, if either of them wanted to feel anything from this moment onwards. 

Steve's body handled the additional finger like a champ, his hole was still wet enough that it slid right home. "Yeah, that's good," Brock said. Finally they were getting somewhere. When Steve drew in a sharp breath, Brock placed kisses all over his back, rewarding the honest reaction. "Much better for both of us, right?" There was no need for Steve to be ashamed now. "So much better," Brock praised again and Steve whined. "Yeah, you needed this too," Brock went on. He wanted to make up for the difficulties now. " Still perfect, Steve. you're still so fucking perfect," he assured him in between wet kisses. "Don't worry, we're gonna make this work. Want you to feel it too. Make you feel good." 

Brock put his free hand anywhere he could reach, compensating for the one stuck between them. 

"Don't touch yourself yet," Brock said, holding Steve down by the neck for a second. He couldn't hold the position any longer, not with the way he had to painfully thrust against his own wrist. 

The fit was just fine now, Steve's ass was filled comfortably, and Brock was getting enough friction to feel himself getting back on track. He just needed to find a more comfortable position for his helping hand. 

He pulled his cock out quickly, not sure if Steve would even register the loss, but he still protested as Brock spread his cheeks apart again. 

"It's just to-," Brock wanted to explain, but the sight of Steve's hole startled him. It was still shiny and wet all around, innocently drooling lube, and Brock instinctively pushed some of it back in with his thumb. "Poor thing," he echoed absently, being reminded of the photo that went around again. Steve made some bad choices, but that didn't mean he was ruined. 

Once they were done, Brock would put in some research on how to make sex work with someone like Steve. 

As hesitant as he had been before, he couldn't deny that he had gotten used to it somehow already. He wouldn't go as far as to say that he liked it, nothing sexy about a sagging rim, but there was something almost addictive about touching the limp and tender entrance. Steve's body was open, dangerously inviting, vulnerable. And Brock was proud that he wasn't like most guys. That he wasn't going to take advantage of that. He slipped all of his index finger into Steve's ass, but with how wide it was, he then curled it in just a little. 

To Brock's surprise and honest amusement, Steve squirmed. "You still feel that?" he asked, doing it again. "You're cute," Brock said, watching Steve writhe beneath him and placed another kiss on the small of his back. 

It was cute. It wasn't at all how Brock had pictured Steve behaving from all the stories he's heard. Here, with Brock, Steve wasn't a shameless whore. He was just a guy who wanted to be loved. And Brock wanted to at least make love to him. 

This time he used his thumb alongside his dick to relieve some strain off his wrist. Aside from the obvious benefit of friction it also allowed his other fingers to play with Steve's sack a little. 

It worked alright, but for a split second Brock wished he had used less lube. It was unbelievably, fucking unreal to be honest, just how soggy Steve's hole still was. Brock tried to find a good rhythm though, for the both of them, tried to forget about the struggle and focus on the reward instead. 

"Play with yourself a little," Brock told Steve, he couldn't imagine Steve getting anything out of this otherwise. No matter how hard Brock tried to make this good for him. "Steve, hey," he said again when Steve didn't react at first. "Come on, play with yourself. Show me what you like." 

Steve's moved his hand between his legs, space a little crowded with Brock taking care of his balls and began stroking his cock slowly, almost as if he didn't know how to. 

"Does a guy like you even need to rub one out?" Brock wondered. "You get fucked so much, bet it's become less of a thing." 

Steve didn't say anything for a moment, focused just on his cock, before he started squirming again. "Am close," he admitted. It was clear, he wanted Brock's permission to let go. Craved his approval. 

It was a bit too much to handle in that moment, as Brock wanted to get himself closer to his own climax before risking that Steve would become entirely slack with his orgasm. "I know," he said, wishing Steve could hold out long enough. "God, Steve. I could fuck you forever, you know that?" 

Unfortunately, it wasn't an option, so Brock started to focus more on his own pleasure, fucking Steve a little harder, knowing it wouldn't make any difference to him. "Need you to close up just a little," he admitted finally, hoping it wouldn't throw Steve off. "Can you do that for me?" 

Steve tried and although the difference was barely noticeable, the hint of friction felt fucking incredible. "Yeah, almost there," he tried to cheer him on for his efforts. "Just like that. Just one more time. Really need to feel you." He could see Steve struggling, and it was a little heartbreaking to witness. "You're teasing me," Brock said, much softer now. Steve needed a little bit of extra care, a little bit of extra encouragement. Brock started kissing his back again, Steve's skin so smooth and vulnerable that he fell a little in love with it. "Can't get enough of you already." 

Out of nowhere, Steve managed to grow tight around him, the surprise causing Brock to lose track of kisses and thrusts alike. "Jesus," he blurted. "Next time warn a guy first." 

Of course, he wasn't suddenly as tight as Brock needed it, but it was good enough and Brock was really proud of Steve for trying. Proud to discover that Steve wasn't a lost cause just yet. "Feels so good," Brock told him honestly. "Feels so fucking good. Gonna come so soon." 

The praise wasn't in vain and Steve continued to clench his muscle as if his life depended on it. Brock was getting there, could feel an edge building to the friction, could feel his own muscles tighten. But he knew it wouldn't be enough to finish him off.

"Fuck," Brock let his frustration slip. He adjusted his grip on Steve, adjusted Steve's body on his cock, knowing he had just one option left. Usually, Brock wasn't the guy to take advice from Rollins, anybody was better of never taking any advice from him. But there was nothing else Brock could come up with and he couldn't just hit pause and fumble with his phone to find a solution to this dilemma. Also, Rollins and him had similar views when it came to sex, so he chose to trust him on this. Hell, Jack was the reason he was in this mess anyway. If he hadn't stood Brock up, Steve wouldn't be so desperate now. It would only be fair, if he would happen to be useful after all. 

Brock tugged one of Steve's asscheek out of the way and Steve protested half-heartedly. "It's alright," Brock assured him. "You can trust me." Steve didn't put on a fight after that, body exhausted from his efforts. "I know you tried," Brock said gently, he wasn't mad. He tightened his fingers around Steve's balls, knowing a little bit of pain could do wonders. It was useless even thinking about trying to pinch Steve's rim first, so he simply went for the next best thing, squeezing Steve's balls just a little too much. Steve could take it and Brock promised himself to make it up to him. 

With Steve's hole at least partly on display, Brock could watch the rim tighten with the rest of Steve's body. A sight to behold.

Brock moaned, thrusting in and out of Steve in apology for the harsh measure. "Come with me, okay?" Brock told him, so close now, so close from what Jack's little trick had done to Steve's ass. "Want you to come with me," Brock said again. "You're a fucking blessing," he added, wanting to praise Steve, wanting to heal that little sting from just a moment ago. "You have no idea what you do to me." 

Steve had already forgotten all about it, fucking himself on Brock's cock, feeling a little more of the penetration himself. He had been ready to come for so long, had so patiently held out for Brock getting there too, that Brock couldn't blame him for rushing now. It wasn't entirely selfish either, he was going to send Brock off into a well-deserved orgasm in no time. 

"You're gonna make me come so hard," Brock told him, high on the rush of impending euphoria. "Wish we'd done this earlier," he admitted breathlessly. Steve had proven to be worth the trouble. "Wish you hadn't been such a goddamn slut before me." 


	3. Chapter 3

Brock was only a couple of thrusts away from his own release as Steve came unexpectedly quick, body slumping forward all at once. Brock's hands surged out in reflex, finger slipping from Steve's ass to hold him by the hips. It didn't matter now. It wasn't about friction anymore. He was so close, it was only about fucking his orgasm to the surface.

And Brock did. Fucked himself over the edge and then through it. Forced Steve all the way down onto the sheets, taking hold of him with his whole body. He wanted Steve to feel him. Everywhere. Ground him. Hide him. Keep him. Wanted to feel him in return. Head to toe. 

Brock's mouth fell on Steve's shoulders on autopilot, fingers and lips on damp skin, cocktails of happy hormones running through his veins. All effort forgotten with the reward. With Steve's body beneath him, tender and calm, and it was Brock's doings. 

"I'll be right back," he said gently, wanted to get rid of the condom right away and keep his dick from sitting in his own juices for too long. 

His cock slipped free right away, no surprise there, and Brock didn't mind when Steve didn't acknowledge the loss. 

Brock slid the condom off carefully, tied it tightly and then balled it up inside the tissue paper that he used first to wipe his dick with quickly. He left it all by the foot of the bed, now wasn't the time to clean up. 

He didn't want to leave Steve, even if it was just to go to the bathroom. He wanted to get back to him. Back on him. Be with him.

Steve had his head turned to the side, tired and ashamed. So different from the guy Brock knew from work. Different from the guy Brock remembered from the restaurant. Or the guy that blew him just an hour or so ago.

"Look at me," he said quietly, knowing he had to take care of him. He waited until Steve had brought his head around on the pillow, then gave him a genuine smile when he saw Steve's face, flushed and sleepy from the sex. "You're the best," Brock added, leaning in for another kiss.

He settled on his side then, watching Steve. It was surreal still to have him here. Captain Steve Rogers. In Brock's home. In his bed. "Didn't think the night would end with you here," he admitted. "Bit of a surprise, the two of us, no?"

Steve shrugged and it broke Brock's heart a little. It didn't make a difference to Steve who took him home. Anyone had been good enough in the past. Anyone had been good enough for a quick fuck. Brock held out hope that things could change. That Steve could. 

"At first I didn't even want to go to this party," he told him honestly while comforting Steve with small touches all over his neck and the side of his face. "I don't really know Wilson. Or any of the pilots really. But Rollins convinced me to come." He laughed thinking about him. About the things Jack had set in motion unknowingly. "I'm glad I did though. Don't care anymore that the idiot didn't even show." 

He really didn't. He wasn't angry anymore. Part of him was grateful even. So grateful, he kissed Steve again. Longer this time. Kissing Steve now was different from fucking him. It wasn't that Steve's mouth hadn't been places. It had. Too many for Brock's taste. It was just as used. But now Brock didn't need to worry. About not being enough. About not being good enough. Kissing wasn't about that. Kissing wasn't about coming.

"You okay?" Brock asked, brushing over Steve's furrowed brow. "You're quiet." 

Brock couldn't blame him. It was a lot. A lot to allow Brock to see all sides of him. The shameful past and his unfiltered sexual needs. And then the side that needed love even more than sex. 

"I'm fine," Steve assured him. "I'm okay." And with that Steve's lips were on Brock's again. To prove his point. 

And then it was just like before. Steve wasn't any less hungry. Not now. Just as determined as when he had opened his mouth for Brock's dick. 

Brock didn't like to be reminded of how eager Steve was for anything that involved sex, didn't like the intensity and the way it snuck back into the kiss. The way Steve kissed him with a pleading tongue. Vulgar and pornographic. But Brock let him. Steve needed it. Old habits died hard.

They were still so close that Brock could feel his lips moving when he spoke again. "You've worn me out," he said. 

"Me?" Brock asked with a smile. Steve had no idea the work Brock had to put into him. How difficult it had been. "Pretty sure it was the other way around," he said, surprisingly charmed by the innocence Steve tried to portray. 

He moved deeper into Steve's space to kiss along his neck. Distract Steve from other things. "Love this aftershave," Brock muttered against his skin. "You smell good all over." He couldn't get enough of Steve. No matter how much he loathed that realization. There were so many different sides of Steve, and Brock started to like at least half of them. He wanted more, if not all, and when he got Steve to settle on his side he discovered that Steve wanted more of him too. Not in the way Brock had hoped though. Of course not. Steve didn't know how to care for people. Only for bodies.

"Again?" Brock asked at the sight of Steve's hardened cock. Steve was so receptive to tenderness that he immediately thought of sex. As if his body knew it was its only chance to be loved. But it wasn't. And Brock felt the urge to show him. "I think I need another minute," he told Steve, placing another kiss on the side of his mouth. "Should have warned you that I wasn't even in my thirties anymore."

"Pretty sure you did," Steve said with a smile. He needed the downtime more than Brock, but he was afraid to say it.

"I love your skin," Brock told him, hands still on Steve. Of course, he was tempted to touch Steve ass. No one could blame him. If Steve wasn't tempting, he couldn't have become such a whore in the first place. If his ass wasn't a treat, this many people wouldn't have gone near his hole. But Brock forced his wandering hands back up Steve's spine, started to kiss him everywhere from his shoulders to his ribcage. He had promised himself to be different after all.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, as Steve rolled back on his front, spread his body out again for better access. 

Brock swallowed. Didn't know if he liked it. The obscene sight of Steve's opened thighs. 

"Don't worry about it," Steve told him, as if he could hide from Brock how eager he was for it again. To be played with. Fingered again. Fucked. Brock should have seen it coming. Of course someone like Steve wouldn't be satisfied with what they'd done already. With a reasonable amount of sex. Steve was used to being fucked all night. That's what his body knew. What it was ready for. 

So Brock resigned and slid his hand over Steve's ass down to his thighs. Then back up to touch Steve thoroughly. Inside and out. Steve's body was aching for him, squirming beneath him like an addict for another hit. He had no self-control whatsoever. 

Brock was about to just slide two fingers in, fuck him a little, although Steve wouldn't really feel it. Just give him something without too much effort. But the feeling of Steve's rim made him hold back once more. It wasn't closed all the way yet, how could it. It would take a while. A lot of work. It was warm though, curled in and crumpled up just a little and, compared to before, almost dry. And suddenly it seemed entirely wrong to disturb it. To force it open once more. Steve really needed to take better care of himself.

"Twice in one night, huh?" Brock said, thoughts and concerns tangled up in his words. He wanted to be better than all the guys Steve had let himself get fucked by, and now he worried that he wasn't. 

He didn't want to be one of those who couldn't say no to Steve, and yet the more he touched him, the more he wanted of him. The more he wanted to put in him. 

He gently tugged on the rim at first, wondering if the muscle had tightened at all, but seeing as it was still soft and flexible, tested how far it still stretched to all sides. It was ridiculous how slack it still was, hanging off Brock's fingertip, lifeless and limp. There was simply no way Brock could come from just that. No regular guy would.

"If you want to," Steve said quietly. He was ashamed of it too. "We don't have to," he added quickly as if he knew, deep down inside, that he couldn't do much for Brock. That he had to go back to those guys that ruined him in the first place. 

"This a joke?" Brock asked. Just the thought of Steve going back to being a whore made him angry. He moved up all the way again to kiss Steve properly. To assure him. "Of course, I want to," he said again for emphasis. "Just don't want to wear you out completely. You have work tomorrow?" 

Steve shook his head and Brock felt some degree of relief ripple through his body.

"Good," Brock said carefully. "Wouldn't want you to have any accidents in the cockpit."

Steve laughed, but Brock had meant it. He'd heard enough stories about long fucks and gaping holes. He didn't want that for Steve. Not on his hands.

He kissed his way down Steve's spine, thinking he could still be better than those other guys. Help Steve be better. 

"Don't move, okay?" he told Steve and got up to get another condom and even more lube. It was the right thing to do. He squeezed some lube onto the tip of his thumb and then brought it over to Steve's hole. If it'd dripped down then, it would have gone straight into Steve.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. He was getting desperate. Of course he was. "I want it," he stressed. "I can take it."

Brock's thumb went in straight, no pressure needed. Steve's ass painfully ready to be penetrated whenever. By whoever. Brock loved sex, but it was clear that there was something like too much sex. Steve had taken it too far in the past. Now he couldn't even have regular sex anymore. Now Brock had to do all the work. Now it was just pity as to not tell him his hole was just a little too saggy for anyone's dick.

"Just tighten up for me again," Brock told him. He was going to help Steve rediscover that muscle. "Love feeling you close up around anything I give you." He had no real experience with this, but Steve had proved to him earlier that despite everything he was still capable of a good squeeze. "Come on, Steve," he urged him on. "Do you want my cock, or not? Show me how much, alright? Show me how well you'll take care of it." 

Steve tried and Brock could almost feel him close around him. Almost. It couldn't have been easy for Steve, but he kept going, embarrassing as it was to not get there entirely. And all his effort, their effort, made Brock hard again.

"You're getting so good at this," Brock said still, stroking Steve's back to show him that it was okay. That he was okay. "You make me want you so much right now," he went on, kissing Steve wherever he could reach him. "Want you to come from my cock again. Wish you could feel it."

With the way Steve tightened around his thumb, Brock knew it was time to give Steve his cock. It would be easier to squeeze around something thicker. It would make Steve feel more accomplished.

"Hold it tight, Steve," he said, slowly pulling the finger out. Maybe a little slower than necessary as to give Steve the illusion that he was actually managing to hold him in. Then he went for the condom and settled next to Steve, knowing just the right position for them.

"Come here," turning Steve in his arms until they were spooning. Steve was quiet. Shy. Needy still. "Like this," Brock said, kissed his shoulder. His cock went in so easy that Steve didn't really register. "You think you can make me come like this?" Brock asked, feeling only the heat of Steve's body but not its walls around him.

He reached over to touch Steve's cock, knowing it would immediately make him feel better. Try harder too. "Just wanted to do this for a while."

"Fuck," Steve moaned. "A while?" he echoed. Then laughed. "Don't think I can last a while."

"This feels good, yeah?" Brock said, satisfied that he had been right. "You know what you can do to earn it," he offered and Steve responded right away. Clenched around Brock loosely. He had a long way to go.

There was no way that he could really give Brock the fit that he needed. He probably would never be able to. But it touched Brock how hard he tried. "You're making me proud," he told him, rewarded him always with his hand on Steve's cock. "You're really working for it."

Brock was deliberately generous with his praise. He wanted Steve to feel good. Wanted him to not give up on himself. And Steve didn't. Worked his muscles as best as he could. 

"There you go," Brock said, running his fingers through Steve's hair. "You got a talent for this," he told him, wishing however that Steve wouldn't have gotten so loose in the first place. "You don't have to go on ruining yourself over it. You're more special than that." 

"No," Steve said, voice lost. He couldn't believe Brock. Wouldn't allow him to just say it.

"You are, Steve," Brock said again. Despite it. "You are more special than that," he added almost painfully honest. "I wouldn't be fucking you for the second time if you weren't." 

Brock pulled him closer, forced himself deeper, to show Steve just how good he was. Special still or even because he was so complicated. Even as used as he was, he was still worth something to Brock.

"Play with your nipple," he told Steve. An attempt to distract him. Both of them. "I wanna see what you like there too."

Brock thought the extra stimulation would help Steve to tighten, body subconsciously reacting to the sensation, muscles trembling with arousal. It didn't. 

"A little tighter, Steve," Brock tried again. Tried to stay calm. "Almost there." At work Brock prided himself on never letting his frustration get the best of him. Here, with Steve, it was a whole other challenge. Here, Brock was invested. Here, he cared. And he refused to believe Steve's hole was a lost cause. That something so beautiful, couldn't be fixed.

"Suck on my cock," Brock blurted, impatience and anger mingling in his chest as he put his mouth so close to Steve's ear. Steve was what he was. And he needed to be talked to in a language he understood. "Like you did earlier," he forced out, knew this was more up Steve's alley. "With that other hole of yours." 

This time Steve's body responded accordingly. From his hole to his cock and every inch of his skin. It was sad, really, that Steve needed this. Needed to be talked to like this. But his body showed that this was just what he had been waiting for. 

"It's good training for you," Brock said, starting to thrust a little to see how the friction felt now. It was better. Much better. Nothing compared to any regular ass, but for Steve it was a true success. Usually a slut was supposed to be easy. But this slut was a lot of work.

"You're getting distracted, Steve," Brock noticed, when the delicious pressure around his cock started to fade. "This all you got?" he asked and gave Steve's cock a firm squeeze. He didn't want to have to hurt Steve again by pinching his balls. But what it came down to was that he brought Steve here for sex. And fucking him was slowly turning into a joke. A joke on Brock. And as much as Brock wanted Steve to feel loved and cared for, Brock felt that he deserved something in return. Something to repay him for his effort. Something Steve wasn't able to give him. And if he'd known, he'd might just let Steve suck him off and be done with it. 

Brock let go of Steve's cock with a sigh and pushed Steve's sack out of the way to press a finger between balls and hole to fake some resistance for his cock. 

Steve scrambled, it couldn't be comfortable, but he couldn't ask Brock to finger him, play with him, fuck him, and then leave him hanging. What Brock had done for him was worth a moment of discomfort.

But then Steve gave up all together. "Just fuck me again," he told Brock. "Like before." He knew it was the only way. With Brock helping him out. 

"You sure?" Brock asked. It wasn't the worst option. Better than this. But Steve had worked his muscles so well, Brock knew it'd be all in vain once he got another finger up there along with his dick. 

"Yeah," Steve said nonetheless. "Just let me roll over."

They moved about until both of them had found their positions and Steve was on his front again. Opening his legs for Brock to crawl in between.

By now, Steve's hole was a little flushed, nothing to worry about though. It didn't look as good as before, but at least it looked alive now. It just wasn't used to the effort anymore and Brock was glad he got Steve to work it so thoroughly. Steve would thank him tomorrow, so much was sure. Brock felt bad when he pushed two fingers back in, abusing what he'd sworn to protect. 

Steve's rim was hot but as yielding as always, mushy and sluggish, and Brock reminded himself that Steve couldn't really feel anything back there anymore. That whatever he did, it wasn't going to ruin Steve further. The opposite was true. He was helping Steve out. He splayed his fingers once more, and Steve called out his name with how good it felt for him.

"I got you," Brock told him. He hadn't originally planned for it, but it made sense to give Steve a little more than before. They both needed it, there was no doubt about it. "I'll help you," he assured Steve, lining up his cock to fit between his fingers. "Just like before," he added and then he pushed in.

"Oh God," Steve whined. It had been the right decision. Steve was practically glowing from the stretch, panting, moaning, fisting the sheets. Meeting Brock's thrusts. 

It wasn't as good as someone tight, but Brock still groaned with the increased friction around his dick. 

"This good?" Brock asked through his own heavy breaths. He fucked Steve for real now, knew his hole could take it easily. Needed it. 

"Yeah, just-," Steve tried but then his voice gave out. "Keep going," he managed to get out between moans. Brock knew Steve couldn't get enough of this, but he hadn't expected him to become this desperate for it. "Don't stop," Steve told him, going crazy for a cock and two fingers. 

"Steve," Brock started, he felt so sorry for him. Wished Steve was still able to enjoy normal sex. To even have normal sex and feel it. Feel how good it could be. "Steve," he tried again. 

He knew he had been annoyed with how difficult it was for him to fuck Steve and get something out of it in return. Knew that he had been fed up with Steve's ample hole. But there was still that part of Brock that felt responsible. Responsible to look after his exposed body. Open and inviting all the time. "You and your goddamn ass," he mumbled. "I swear you'll be the end of me." 

He slipped his fingers free without thinking about it, pushed Steve into the sheets with one hand and used the other to knead the flesh around Steve's rim, until he could almost feel his thumb pressing against the underside of his cock that was still buried in Steve. If Steve couldn't hold him tight, then Brock would do it himself, skin and lube squelching along the condom. 

Brock fucked Steve's hole like a wet sack, working his fingers against the rim from the outside, to hold it closed at the top. It wasn't much fun, but it would do until he could finish. He barely registered when Steve came, noticed it only by the sudden smell of come, but he kept going, knowing Steve didn't mind. 

Although he had gone quiet and relaxed earlier, Steve now tried to help him along. Working his body against Brock thrusts and suddenly starting to suck his dick in. Brock groaned at the feeling. With Steve giving his all and the help of Brock's fingers, it was only a matter of seconds until Brock's knees started to tremble and his hips stuttered and stumbled over his climax. 

"Jesus, Steve," he cursed, sweat on his forehead and down his spine as he pulled out. "You squirming like that is a gift to this world." Once more he felt the pleasure linger in every part of his body. Felt happy. Easy. And he laughed with it. "You okay?" he asked Steve, his hands shaky from the adrenaline as he took care of the condom. "Have I told you that you're a fucking masterpiece?" he rambled, high on his orgasm still. He kissed along Steve's arm. 

"Not often enough," Steve told him, getting comfortable in Brock's bed.

"You're a fucking masterpiece," Brock said again. He knew he had been angry before. Fed up and impatient. But none of it was Steve's fault. Steve had tried his best all night. "A goddamn masterpiece," he told Steve with a kiss on his cheek. "I'll be right back."

He picked up the other condom as he made his way to the bathroom. Brock met his eyes in the mirror when he washed his hands, still breathing through his mouth although he had calmed by now. He could still see the residue of a smile in the lines of his face. His hair was messy and he ran his fingers through it, damp skin taming rogue strands. 

He liked having someone at home with him, the knowledge of Steve waiting for him in the other room. He took a clean towel from the stack, lingering a little by the doorway to watch Steve. 

"Thought you would have moved off that wet spot by now," he said, walking over to the bed to sit down beside Steve. 

Steve was tired, relaxed, wonderfully calm. Approachable. And Brock wanted him to stay the night. 

"May I?" he asked, brushing the towel over Steve's skin. Offering to clean him up. 

They've been at it all night and although Brock's had the hardest job, it wasn't that things had been easy for Steve. Physically, maybe. But emotionally draining. Brock wanted to take care of him. Wanted to make Steve comfortable, give him the time to come down slowly.

Steve nodded and Brock started wiping the lube off him carefully. Although he had been self-conscious before, Steve let Brock look after him. Look at him. "Unbelievable," Brock muttered, with how beautiful he still was. Everywhere. Even after a night like this. 

He lay back down, close to Steve, when he was done. His fingers desperate to touch more of Steve's skin again. Arms, shoulders and neck. Steve was breathing so calm and peaceful that Brock wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep. "I usually don't sleep with guys who have a reputation like yours," Brock admitted quietly, fingers reaching Steve's hair. "I'm glad I made and exception tonight."

He wanted to have Steve closer, hug him even. Hold him. But Steve hadn't made any move to seek more of Brock than this, so he didn't. Knew Steve needed time to get used to this. "Tonight, you just looked too damn good to pass on."

All of the sudden, Steve pushed himself up on his elbows, peace and quiet wiped off his expression. He stared at Brock as if he'd just said something particularly hurtful.

"Come on, Steve," Brock tried to calm him. "You can't be offended by that." None of this was news. Steve was well aware of what people thought of him. What they said about him. Steve himself had curated his image. Steve Rogers was a goddamn whore and the whole fucking world including Steve knew that for a fact. "Everyone knows Captain America has been around," Brock went on. He could see the anger in Steve's face, but couldn't make sense of it. "Your hole doesn't show it though. You're lucky with that." 

Steve didn't say anything. Eyes bewildered and confused, but there was no way around accepting his truth. No matter how ugly it was.

"Guess those are the perks of being bi and versatile," Brock added, trying not to show his own dislike. He knew Steve was into everything. His sexuality was a mess. On all accounts. "I mean it's a little loose, but who isn't these days. Nothing harder to come by than a tight fit," he remarked more to himself. He hadn't been with too many guys, hadn't been with anyone captivating since-, no, he wouldn't go there. "No wonder you have a thing for fingering," he said instead. To distract himself. "Cock can't give you that stretch anymore, huh?" It wasn't a secret. And Steve didn't need to try and hide again. Brock got it. He had been nothing but understanding. "There are toys that can help you with that. Get you nice and tight again," he offered. Wanted Steve to know he could still do something about it.

"I don't need help." Steve said. His voice was quiet at first, but then gained some strength. "I don't have a problem."

"I didn't mean it like that," Brock tried, he knew Steve was embarrassed, but he thought they'd moved past the lies at least. "It's not that bad," he added gently. "Some guys even like it like that. It's just that you can tell you've been stretched a lot."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, did something like a half roll with his eyes. "By you," he told Brock. "Tonight." 

This was getting ridiculous.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Brock reminded him. Really tried to be patient. It hadn't been his intention to ruin the mood. He didn't know why Steve had to pick a fight like that. "I told you it doesn't show yet." 

Brock gave him a small smile, although he understood now that this was another defense mechanism. Steve couldn't deal with Brock's honesty. With how understanding he was. 

"It's not a secret though, right?" he reminded Steve gently. "Are there any co-pilots left you haven't slept with? What about cabin crews?" There was no reason for Steve to pretend. Not with Brock. Not with how fast gossip spread at work. "It's okay, Steve," he assured him again. "I'm not judging. Just saying, I usually have a different type," Brock admitted. "I'm more of a long-term, being-exclusive kind of guy. A one night stand just doesn't reward the work you put in."

It never did. 

Steve wasn't any different. Ungrateful and immature. 

Steve swallowed his objections. They went about sex differently. Very differently. And Brock just liked things more intimate. Committed. Loving. 

"Gotta admit though," Brock started, willing to help Steve. Offer him a chance out of his lifestyle. "You really are something special. And we still made it work." The fresh memories and the sight of Steve's naked body made Brock smile again. They really had made it work. "I've never had to use two fingers before, but this was still the best sex I had in a while. A long while. Ever, maybe," he admitted, although he didn't like how it made him feel. "I don't regret that it happened at all." 

"I think I have to go," Steve just said. Brock's confession was too much for him. He couldn't deal with the affection. Thought he didn't deserve it.

"Steve, come on," Brock started, still moved his body out of the way. There was a chance that Steve would lash out if he'd tried to stop him physically. "I want you to stay," he added honestly.

"I don't stay over," Steve said, his voice cold and detached. He got dressed in a rush, waving Brock off whenever he said as much as his name. It was painful to watch. He really had to escape any sign of genuine connection. 

Brock got up, wanted to call him a taxi at least, but Steve couldn't even meet his eyes. When the door fell shut behind him, Brock stood helplessly in the empty apartment. He had failed Steve. Failed himself. 

Fuck.

There was a chance Steve would come around in the morning. Realizing that Brock had meant well. That he didn't care about Steve's past. Only his future. But there was a chance that he wouldn't. And somehow that chance seemed to grow with every passing second. And Brock started feeling like shit.

While he was lost in thought, Crossbones had emerged from her hideout and circled Brock's feet. 

It was going to be a long night. Longer than fucking Steve twice. And lonely. Lonelier than fucking Steve twice.

  



	4. Chapter 4

With tired eyes and still a hint of confusion, Brock stared at the damp spot on his dark sheets where Steve had been lying. Body so open, but his face hidden from Brock. According to his co-workers, there was no wrong way to fuck Rogers. But apparently, there was a wrong way to take care of him after. 

And Brock was guilty of it. 

Steve was so deep in denial about who he was that Brock had hurt him by spelling it out. And maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have lied. Should have kept to himself. 

But he had made it pretty clear that it didn't even matter. It was just a fact. Not judgement. 

With a firm grip he took hold of the corner of the bedsheet and pulled it off in one go. He'll dump it in the washer tomorrow. 

Then he took a quick shower, washing the images of Steve off him. His opened mouth and Brock's finger on his tongue. The way he'd spread his legs. His arched back and the smooth skin of his shoulders. Those rare times he'd laughed. The water was only lukewarm. Like it was often at this time at night. Brock was used to it due to his shifts. It was cold enough to keep him distracted, but failed to make him feel clean. Cleansed of Captain Steve Rogers. 

When he walked back into the bedroom, Crossbones was already on the bed, feet tucked in as she watched Brock with one eye cracked open. 

"You ever had a night like this?" he asked, heading over to the dresser where he kept some fresh sheets and his pajama pants. 

Crossbones didn't reply, just closed her eyes all the way. She was pissed that the bed had been otherwise occupied until now. She wasn't used to Brock having company. Neither was Brock though. 

He didn't want to move her out of the way, but eventually did so, so he could at least cover the entire mattress, no matter how messy. She'd come back once he'd settled. 

The changed sheets did nothing to eliminate the lingering scent of Steve's cologne though, of his aftershave and his orgasm. 

Although the latter could have just been Brock's imagination. 

* * *

The doorbell was used so rarely that Brock tended to forget he even had one. When it rang in the morning, Brock sat upright within a second, heart beating as if he was right in the middle of an intense workout. 

With panicked looks he checked all around his bedroom for any forgotten items. A watch maybe. Or a phone. Something, anything of Steve's that he had overlooked last night. Something Steve could have easily left behind in his rush. 

He grabbed the next best thing his hands could reach, a ratty old gray sweater on his way and checked the hallway holding his breath. 

It wasn't Steve hovering outside his apartment door, it was Jack, holding two coffees and a paper bag. Brock checked for Crossbones before unlocking the chain. 

"Where the fuck were you?" Brock asked, opening the door and letting Rollins inside. 

"And good morning to you too," Jack said, somehow in a similarly carefree mood as yesterday. "Thought I'd come by before the shift." He shrugged. "You know, pick you up." 

Suddenly unsure whether he'd overslept for the afternoon shift, Brock threw a hidden glance at the digital clock of his microwave. Security wasn't allowed to stress. Allowed to show stress. And all those goddamn rules had become his life somehow. 

"It's not for another three hours," Brock said annoyed, hands coming up to rub his eyes. 

"Wanted to hear about last night," Jack told him, placing the paper bag on the tiny table in Brock's tiny kitchen. Then he held out one of the coffees for Brock to take. "You didn't chicken out, did you?" he asked. 

"No," Brock said, took the paper cup and sat down on one of the two chairs. He watched Jack pick plates from the cabinet and set them down in front of him. 

Jack was the only person stepping by somewhat regularly and over the past years some weird routine had shaped between them. Jack had his spot, the chair he always sat in. The cup he always used. The one Brock didn't drink from anymore, as he could only think of it as Jack's. A favorite pillow when Jack crashed on the couch. The towel that Brock kept in a drawer in the living room. For him to use in the morning. 

Making friends was difficult, after school, after college, when work took up so much time and most people settled into family lives. And although Brock was grateful to have Jack, he couldn't even remember how their friendship came to be. It didn't matter. 

"No?" Jack echoed, dropping a donut and scone onto Brock's plate. "So you had a long night?" 

Brock eyed Jack carefully, watching him lick the tip of one finger before he helped himself to his own breakfast. 

"What did you hear?" Brock asked, because he wasn't stupid. And he knew Rollins face better than anyone. 

"Nothing," Jack lied, sitting down opposite of Brock before he started sipping his coffee. "Did you have fun?" 

"Stop the charade, man," Brock said, taking a bite to distract himself. Word travelled fast and it travelled twice as fast in aviation. He knew there would have been gossip about him hanging out with Rogers at the party, but he had tried his best to make sure no one saw them leaving together. 

"Heard Captain America made eyes at you," Jack finally confirmed. "You didn't take him home did you?" 

Brock frowned, slowly catching up. This was going to be a hell of a day with the amount of sleep he was lacking. "Is that why you came by?" he asked, but it wasn't really a question. He already knew. "To see if he was here?" 

"Just here to pick you up," Jack tried, but Brock knew him too well to miss all his tells. He was lying. He was a nosy son of a bitch who wanted to check for himself if the rumors were true. "I know you wouldn't sink that low," Jack added, even leaned forward, half way up from his chair to clap Brock's shoulder twice. "I'm surprised it took him so long to come onto you though. He's been eyeing you up for years now. Little slut trying to score out of his league." 

Brock felt the tension down to his feet, couldn't place the offense he took. On behalf of himself or Steve. It took a hell lot of effort to keep his knees still and his face straight. 

"He just had to try though, didn't he?" Jack added and scoffed at the idea. "Fucking Rogers, man. Thinks he's worth something just because he wears those fucking stripes on his shoulders. Everyone knows he isn't worth the load of spit it takes to fuck him." 

"Where the hell were you yesterday?" Brock asked. Couldn't take Jack's words any longer. Not now. Not this morning. "And don't bullshit me with that work excuse again." 

"It really was a work thing," Jack insisted. "Pierce asked me for a favor." 

"Alexander Pierce," Brock clarified. Relieved he managed the change of topic. "Airport president and CEO. Asked you for a favor?" Something just didn't seem right. 

"Yep," Jack said, shrugged but grinned at once. "Guess I'm quite popular with the boss." 

"What kind of favor?" Brock wondered, suspicion rising the more he thought about it. 

"Just a personal security thing," Jack played it down. "Tagged along to a meeting. Stood by the door and that was it." 

They sat there for a moment, with their secrets and lies, unwilling to admit to the truth. Not Jack, but Brock wouldn't either. Admit to what really happened between him and Steve. 

"Hey," Jack said when he noticed Brock's hesitant looks. His resignation. "You know I need the money. If he ever needs a second guy, I'll make sure to get you in. I know I'm not the only one of us who could use the extra change." 

Brock nodded, but he didn't care about the opportunity. His head was elsewhere. Mostly with his reaction this morning. His conviction that Steve had come back. Had left something behind. That he'd come back to apologize. Talk things over. 

Instead he had to head out for work, another dull shift full of annoyed faces. Co-workers that would force every bit of gossip down his throat. Another lunch break in arrivals, with those same guys, those same stories. 

"You sure you're alright?" Jack asked, reaching over to take half of Brock's unfinished donut off him. "You don't look good." 

"Thanks," Brock said, pinching his nose. "Didn't sleep well, that's all." 

"Maybe you're lucky and you can work the monitors," Rollins said, eyeing Brock's abandoned scone too. 

He wasn't lucky. 

He was stuck on body scanners all afternoon, having to pat down every third guy or so while Sharon checked the women coming through. They worked well together, avoiding unnecessary small-talk and focused on the tasks at hand instead. Brock tried his best to ignore the looks of the guys at the monitors and carry-on checks, and the whispers from all sides. 

There had been some slaps on the back on his way to the gates. A guy whistling and laughter that followed. And Jack striding alongside him with a smug expression. 

Brock was tempted to deny every last rumor he could think of, but he knew better than to add attention to the whole thing. The less he'd say, the less people knew. And if he was lucky it would all blow over soon enough. Even if someone had seen him leave with Rogers, there was still a chance they had simply shared a cab or separated right outside the restaurant. He was better off sparing himself any explicit involvement. So far, the only thing everyone seemed to be talking about was Steve trying to land Brock at the party. If any of the guys in his team assumed he actually reciprocated, they were too scared to say so. And Brock wanted to keep it that way. 

The first half of his shift had passed excruciatingly slow and by the time he was due for his break, he had lost all motivation. His feet hurt in a way they hadn't in years, his eyes were watery from exhaustion and the harsh light, and his stomach was bitter and tight. 

"You look awfully sad for the guy that put Rogers in his place," Jack said, walking over to their usual spot in arrivals. As if he fucking cared. Wordlessly, Brock threw an untouched bag of salted peanuts at him. "What?" Jack asked offended. "Jesus, you really slept that bad? Or are you pining after Steve?" he teased, stretched the 'e' unnecessarily long. 

Brock was about to tell him to go fuck himself, as someone else sat down next to him. 

"Who's Steve?" Sharon asked, obviously planning to spend her break with the two of them. 

There was no way the gossip hadn't long passed the lines of the guys' locker room. She knew. She wasn't stupid. The worst thing was that he actually liked her. Sharon was tough and worked as quick as she was thorough. He liked her better than ninety percent of the guys working security. And now she was going to judge him for the rest of his life. 

"Captain America," Jack said, grinned at her, but winked at Brock. "Dude is getting desperate. He tried to bend over backwards yesterday to make an impression. And now Brock here has a little crush." Brock could feel the heat of the blush rising his cheeks, but he forced his heart to calm down with a couple of slow and deep breaths. "Didn't he slip you his number once too?" Jack asked Sharon and Brock kept his body painfully still once more. Of course Steve had. Steve tried to fuck whoever. 

"For emergencies," Sharon said and watched Brock with a genuine smile. "He lives right around the corner from my building." Then she turned and, a second later, pulled a piece of paper from the depths of her bag. "Think this is it." She gave it a quick glance, then nodded. Held it out to Brock, but before he had a chance to take it, Rollins had already put his greasy fingers on it. 

"Emergencies, huh?" he was still chewing on his food as he spoke. "Everyone knows what Rogers means by that." He waved the number in Brock's face like any asshole in fifth grade would. "Call 911-Steve if you need to get your dick wet." 

Brock's hand snapped out and tore the slip of paper from Rollins even before he had a chance to actively decide to do so. Within a second it had disappeared into his pocket, heavier than the pile of quarters he hoarded for the vending machine. 

"Just eat your goddamn food," he told Rollins, fed up with his friend and this day. 

Only hesitantly he looked to the side, scared he'd looked guilty once he'd met Sharon's gaze. But Sharon still smiled at him, as if nothing had happened. As if Rollins didn't exist. As if she didn't care that Brock had made a fool of himself by getting involved with Rogers in the first place. She didn't ask for the number back. Just quietly ate her food. 

No, Sharon was too smart to call up Captain Rogers. Smarter than Brock. But she still looked at him as if she understood why these things happened. Moments of weaknesses and all. Emergencies. Mistakes. 

They happened. They weren't to happen on the job. No one could blame him for slacking in his personal life. If only his personal life wasn't about to spill over into work like a tsunami hitting a neatly designed coastline. Chaos was unavoidable and Brock wanted to slap some sense into his past self. 

But he couldn't. 

All he could do was return Sharon's smile with a small one and a barely noticeable nod. 

The second part of his shift turned out to be far worse than the first. One of the new guys still getting trained was told to shadow him for a while, visibly annoyed with his orders. He stared at Brock when he wasn't looking, but couldn't even meet his eyes when Brock explained things to him. Refused to actively listen to him. Refused to acknowledge Brock's authority. Undermined him by yawning or checking his watch. And when Brock called him out on his lack of attention, he caught him muttering the f-word under his breath. 

Sharon caught it too, stepping up in shock with her mouth already open to talk some sense into the shithead, but Brock waved her off. If this escalated he'd had to explain the entire thing to H R. And he'd rather not. Ever. 

He'd let Rollins deal with this guy as soon as he had the chance to make him change stations. 

* * *

When he finally clocked out, Brock was equally exhausted as he was riled up. Fed up with the comments and looks. Those stupid knowing grins and the teasing questions. He turned back to see if he was alone, then, without a second thought, pulled the wrinkled paper from his pocket and got his phone out to type a message. 

To Steve 10:11PM  
did you tell anyone from work about us? 

He turned around again, feeling fucking paranoid, but no one was behind him. 

From Steve 10:13PM  
You worrying about my reputation again? 

He'd almost missed the last step of the stairs as he headed for the bus station, eyes glued to the screen and paying no attention to his surroundings. Steve was so goddamn infuriating, Brock was tempted to call just so he could yell at him. 

To Steve 10:15PM  
you really don't give a fuck about other people do you? 

Though their shift had ended at the same time, Rollins had been nowhere to be seen, either he'd rushed out or hung back on purpose. Or they'd just missed each other by seconds and he was lurking close by. Brock couldn't stop checking his back as often as he checked his phone. 

From Steve 10:18PM  
It's called minding your own business. You should try it sometime. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

If only Brock hadn't taken the number in the first place. 

To Steve 10:20PM  
glad you can afford not giving a shit but talk like this can have serious consequences for other people. wish you'd realize that. 

To Steve 10:20PM  
this is exactly why i don't fuck around on the job. i knew this was going to be a mistake. i can't afford to look for a new placement. 

When he looked back up, a small group of people were already queuing to get into the bus he was supposed to take. He was angry, had stopped in his tracks to get all the words out. Now he had to hurry, jogged to close the distance and not miss his connection. Steve wasn't worth the half an hour wait he'd be forced to endure otherwise. 

Luckily, he made it and nodded his thanks to the driver before taking the empty seat right behind him. He immediately felt safer, there was no way Rollins could ambush him here and steal a glance off his phone. Steve had already replied. 

From Steve 10:20 PM  
Like you wish I hadn't been such a slut before you? 

From Steve 10:21PM  
What do you mean? 

It took him a bit to realize that Steve had sent his first question before the second part of his own had arrived. Reading his own words back now, he couldn't recall why he'd ever thought it a good idea to say them. He sounded like Rollins on a good day. Like that dickhead he had to train today. The disrespect he had to endure. Unable to do anything about it. 

To Steve 10:28PM  
people get fired for rumors like that. 

It wasn't just a general statement. It was a reminder. To himself more than Steve. But then Brock decided to be honest all the way through. 

To Steve 10:28PM  
happened to me before. 

He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't stop himself either. He really couldn't afford to lose this job. With his forty years, he'd have a hard time in security, younger and fitter guys pushing into the positions that paid well. Not necessarily well, but enough to keep the head above water. Enough to get comfortable without having to take jobs that involved greater risks. The private military sector was always an option, but he knew he'd never made it into retirement if he had to take it. People like him would be sent off abroad and left their life there. Personal belongings shipped back to his parents' place in a plastic bag. His dad finally relieved of the burden he had to call his son. 

No, he'd rather work security at the airport. When he glanced back down to his phone he realized how long he'd been lost in his own thoughts. 

From Steve 10:30PM  
Shit. 

From Steve 10:33PM  
Look, I didn't tell anyone. I never planned to and I won't. I don't know what people are talking about. But the only thing they can possibly know is that we talked for a while. That we left at the same time. 

All of the things that went wrong the night before, they hadn't all been Brock's fault. Sure, he could have phrased a thing or two differently, but then again, there were no new fancy untainted words to describe what Steve was. If the truth offended him, then it wasn't on Brock. 

But Brock had known what he was getting himself into. Had known who Steve was when he'd started looking for him with that second beer in hand. When he'd kept Rogers from walking back to his friends right away. When he'd sat with him and had let Steve's fingers graze his elbow, his knee, his thigh. There was no need to spell it out later. During sex. Make Steve feel worse over a past he couldn't change. That was on Brock. And he wanted to apologize for it. 

To Steve 10:43PM  
i'm sorry i said those things. 

He hit sent before getting ready to hop off at the next stop. Grabbed his backpack and slid from the seat, gave another grateful nod to the driver before heading down the street. 

It was colder than the night before, his breath painting the air white, and Brock pulled the zipper of his jacket all the way up, set a hurried pace. 

Once he was home, he filled Crossbones's bowl while he fumbled with his phone, unlocking the screen only to see that Steve hadn't replied. Brock didn't blame him. 

To Steve 10:52PM  
i'm not an asshole all the time. 

He rummaged through the fridge, trying to find some dinner for himself but gave up when he realized he was too tired to cook anyway. When the screen lit up, his stomach filled with nervousness instead. 

From Steve 10:53PM  
Tempted to believe you. 

The smile was up his face even before he noticed the tug at the corners of his mouth. Fucking Rogers. 

To Steve 10:56PM  
next time i'll make a better impression. 

Absently, he scratched Crossbones's head, although she hated being disturbed while she ate. Brock needed the company. Didn't trust himself with only Steve just yet. 

From Steve 10:59PM  
Next time? 

A breath escaped from his tight chest, tension slipping and building at once. For a lack of better choices, he opened the fridge once more to grab himself a beer. 

To Steve 11:01PM  
never say never right? 

The beer helped him calm down and gave him something to do. He wanted to keep going, keep talking to Steve. No one would know. No one could see them here, put two and two together. Once things at worked calmed down, he might be open for a next time. But he doubted that Steve could wait that long. Would find someone new sooner or later. Whether Brock liked it or not. Whether he tried to stop him or not. 

To Steve 11:02PM  
you had a good time, didn't you? aside from the shit i said? 

To Steve 11:03PM  
not asking for my ego. asking if you're okay. 

He still had to try. 

The minutes passed and before he knew it the beer was empty and Crossbones watched him from the kitchen door. 

"Time for bed, mh?" he asked, leaving the bottle behind as he turned the lights off. 

He had just taken off his shirt and opened his belt when he saw the text message pop up. 

From Steve 11:09PM  
There's room for improvement. 

Okay, so Steve wasn't okay. He hurried with his reply, fingers rushing over the letters. 

To Steve 11:09PM  
you're a bit much to handle. kinda overwhelming. 

He shrugged his pants down and kept the phone in his hands as he stripped his undershirt off as well. 

From Steve 11:10PM  
That supposed to make me feel better? 

Jesus, was there anything he could say that was good enough for Captain America? He stumbled into the bathroom, annoyed and helpless, to brush his teeth and wash his face with some cold water. 

In the corner he spotted the towel he'd used to clean up, the image of Steve spread out on his bed forever tied to this random piece of fabric. Traces of sweat and lube, and Steve. And yet Brock wanted to bury his goddamn face in it. 

Toothbrush still between his lips, he wandered back into his bedroom to retrieve his phone. 

To Steve 11:15PM  
i think i'm trying to make you happy. 

To Steve 11:16PM  
know that i'm failing. 

To Steve 11:16PM  
my fault, not yours. 

He dropped the phone on his bed and grabbed a fresh towel on his way back. He was better than this. He wasn't pining. He didn't have a crush. 

Rollins was an idiot. 

From Steve 11:18PM  
Might be heading in the right direction. 

From Steve 11:19PM  
Never say never, right? 

Just as Brock needed time to let those rumors calm at work or find a way to handle them better, Steve needed time to get used to someone caring about him. Get comfortable with the idea of not being discarded after being fucked. No, texting Steve hadn't been the worst idea. It had been the right thing to do. Maybe Steve was already turning his life around. One step at a time. 

To Steve 11:21PM  
fresh start? 

From Steve 11:22PM  
Fresh start. 

Yep, things were definitely going to change. 


	5. Chapter 5

When Brock woke up that morning something had been lifted off his shoulders. The mess of the past forty-eight hours that had cut into his life like a knife. Cut into his routine, into his heart that he'd worked so hard to settle. To be calm. To be focused on gratitude, not unreasonable hopes. 

He trusted Steve to keep things to himself. And he wasn't going to slip up either. So things at work were bound to quiet too. As far as the world was concerned, Rogers and him had never seen each other naked at all. 

  
It wasn't until midday that Brock noticed exactly how quiet things had really been. Unrealistically quiet, considering how little time had passed. At first he had put it all on his good mood. On some regained confidence. But there had been no side glances. No curious looks, no comments. No one had addressed him for anything that wasn't urgent and wasn't work-related. 

Then Brock had feared it was the calm before the storm. That something bigger was about to hit him Something worse. An even bigger conspiracy. That he was a dead man walking. His body jumped between fight or flight, anticipation running high, and it became harder and harder to hide his tense muscles and his racing heart. 

Suddenly it was him, avoiding eyes and words all the same. The one keeping his head down again. Glancing up only to check over his shoulder. He thought about texting Steve. Thought about asking him once more if he'd kept his promise. Realized then what a fool he had been to trust him in the first place. Steve had lied to him before. There was no reason to assume he had become any more trustworthy over night. 

And then, right when he was heading to his locker for lunch, he ran straight into that jackass from yesterday. Brock froze while that guy's eyes went wide, the ugly purple bruise under his left shifting straight into focus. Even before Brock noticed the swollen bridge of his nose and the scraped cheekbone. 

"What happened to you?" he said out of reflex. Out of curiosity. Some misplaced amusement. Not sympathy. It was no surprise they hadn't run into each other earlier. No surprise that this guy didn't have a chance to fuck with Brock's patience again. With a face like that he was probably working in the back, screening luggage rather than facing actual customers. As it should be. 

The guy looked back down immediately, mumbled an apology for not paying attention before scrambling his body out of Brock's way. 

Brock flipped him off behind his back, tempted to spit after him. But there was only so much he could get away with. Security cameras were everywhere. 

When he got to arrivals, Rollins and Carter were already sitting in Brock's usual spot, sharing food and what looked like a good laugh. Brock stumbled over the sight, he hadn't expected Sharon having lunch with them to become a thing. Apparently, it had though. 

"Rumlow," Jack called and grinned as soon as he saw him. Waved him over with sticky fingers. Cold pizza sitting in his lap. "How's the shift going?" he asked, moved his legs out of the way. 

"Good," Brock said quietly, trying his best to act natural. Composed. Anything but paranoid. "Good," he tried again. 

Sharon pulled her bag from the seat on her other side so Brock could sit down next to her instead of Jack. "You okay?" she asked, looking him over. "You seem a little lost today." 

"Just tired," Brock lied, nervous to face her. He didn't think she'd bring up Steve's number again, but he couldn't be sure. She had been nice enough the day before, but rumors could change people's opinions. Could ruin everything. "Looking forward to the weekend," he told her to distract himself, but flinched internally the second those words were out. She was going to ask what his plans were. She'd ask if his plans included Steve. She'd assumed they would. And once more, he'd be fucked. 

"Got a date?" Rollins asked, because he was the asshole who knew Brock better than anyone else. 

"Catching up on sleep," Brock said annoyed, knowing that he shouldn't have. He had been sleeping. He had been sleeping in his bed alone. He hadn't had sex with Rogers and still felt every second of it. 

"You need to go out more, Brock," Jack told him, sounded genuinely caring for a second. It was a hunch, nothing more, a faint emotional reflex despite the fact that Jack hadn't been around yesterday, when Brock let his gaze graze over the knuckles of Jack's fist. 

Jack didn't notice his stray glances, the silent inquiry. But Sharon did, caught him and placed a gentle hand on his knee. "I really hope you can get some rest," she said and squeezed it. Split skin over bruised and swollen bones. Same as the back of Jack's hand. Same as that other guy's face. 

Brock opened his mouth to say something. To ask if they've lost their goddamn minds. What they were thinking to straight up beat a guy raw on his behalf. But this time Rollins interrupted him before he could get his thoughts in order. Before he could even get a single word out. 

"We should really just put this week behind us," he said, unusually eloquent for his person and grinned. That fucker knew exactly how Brock would react. Sharon nodded, of course she would, squeezed Brock's knee again before pulling her hand back casually hiding the bloodshot knuckles. 

This wasn't the kind of conspiracy he had been panicking about. Maybe he owed Rogers another apology. 

Brock tried to keep a stern look, huffed over their recklessness, their stupidity, a smile spreading across his face whether he wanted it or not. He had no empathy for that guy. The opposite was true. It felt fucking fantastic to know that the shithead hadn't been somehow caught up in a tragic accident, but got exactly what was coming at him. 

"You're insane," he said, shrugged helplessly over what he couldn't vocally condone, but didn't mind either. Enjoyed wholeheartedly. "You guys are insane." He didn't know what to do. This wasn't really an appropriate reason to get up and hug people. One of them he barely knew. So he just sat there for a moment, staring at his food. "Really fucking insane," he said quietly, because he didn't know how to say 'thanks'. 

"As long as the message was received," Jack said, stretching his arms out above his head as if the memory bored him already. As if the violence bored him already. "Don't need that kind of shit at work." It was strange, hearing it from Jack, knowing how much he enjoyed a good tease. How bullying was just roughhousing to him. Guys being guys and all that. 

Brock could fight his own fights, and maybe he should have, but he needed the job and he couldn't have risked that guy filing a complaint. Or a report with the police. 

Of course Rollins didn't give a fuck about those concerns. But Sharon didn't seem too worried about that either. 

"I gotta go back," she said, nodding at both of them, before gathering what was left of her lunch and grabbing her bag from the floor. "Take care, boys." 

"You too," Brock said, turning to Jack once she was out of sight. "Seriously?" 

"Wasn't my idea," Jack shrugged. He reached for a piece of bacon on Brock's lap that had fallen out of his sandwich and tossed it carelessly into his mouth. "Would have been, if you'd told me what happened," he added though. 

"It was just rumors," Brock reminded him. Insisted on his lies. "It was going to blow over soon." 

"Yeah, but from what Carter told me he wasn't just talking rumors, was he?" Jack asked, eyeing Brock's face. It was a little unsettling, so Brock handed him the chocolate bar he had gotten from the vending machine. 

"No," Brock admitted then. "No, he wasn't." 

"Carter asked me to settle this with her once and for all," Jack told him. "As far as I'm concerned, that loser got what he asked for," he added and then moved on to the chocolate as if it was just another day. 

Jack was right though. It was time to put that week behind them. It was time for Brock to put Steve behind him. And along with him all those thoughts of second chances. Move on to things that were less complicated. Stressful. Move on to people who didn't come with such a suffocating pile of baggage. Someone who wasn't such a goddamn handful. Emotionally and physically exhausting. 

He really needed to get out more. 

Meet someone new. 

Go on a date. 

Have sex that was neatly digestible. That wasn't borderline disturbing. 

By Friday, Brock had even convinced himself that he had never spent the night with Steve Rogers. That rumors were rumors, and that he'd gone straight to sleep after a birthday party he never even planned on going to in the first place. 

He's had some beers, been angry about Rollins not showing, had talked to some of the guests and the birthday boy. Had been hit on by Captain America. Had humored him for a while there, before realizing he knew better and had walked home. Everyone knew Brock wouldn't sink that low. 

There had been no kissing, no undressing. No mistakes. 

There were texts on his phone, but he made sure to delete them, hidden away in a bathroom stall during his break. 

Steve and him were on good terms, friendly colleagues, strangers when it came down to it. What Steve did, who he did, it wasn't any of Brock's business. Brock wasn't one of them. 

And had never been. 

* * *

The call came Saturday morning, his mother in tears and with a trembling voice. Rushed words that Brock could barely catch. His father was in the hospital after suffering a fall. And it was unclear, still, what had caused his body to give in. His brother was already on his way, the other impossible to reach right now as he was deployed overseas. "Come home," she had said. "Come home and see your father." 

Brock had almost thrown up just at the thought of it. 

Reluctantly, he agreed. Wanted to spare his mother when she started to beg him. To come back to New York, help out, be there. Either until his father was released from the hospital or in case things would take a turn for the worse. 

He called Jack right away, couldn't bare the thought of asking yet another favor from Sharon so soon. 

"Can you take my shifts?" he asked, nervously staring down at his own hands. "Two days, that's all," he said, sounding a little too desperate for what his training would allow. 

"Don't worry," Jack offered, but Brock didn't know if it did him any good. "I can even talk to Pierce," he assured him. "Make sure you get those shifts back one way or another." 

"I'll be back on Wednesday for the night shift," Brock promised. "I just have to show my face for my mother's sake." 

"Sure," Jack said and although he was a godforsaken bastard at times, he was a loyal one. And Brock knew he'd be lost without him. 

"See you Wednesday," Brock told him, already moving to pack his bag, when he remembered. "Uh, Jack?" he asked, waiting for Rollins to hum on the other line. "Are you looking after Crossbones?" 

"Do you even have to ask?" Jack said and laughed. "Obviously." 

"See you Wednesday," Brock said again although he wanted to say 'thanks'. Then he hung up. 

Trying not to think about what was waiting for him in New York, he booked himself the flights, packed a couple of clothes, toothbrush and the smallest bottle of shampoo he could find, pulled the charger of his phone from the socket before squeezing everything into his bag. 

He wanted to do what was right. What was necessary. 

* * *

When he finally got to the hospital, after the flight and the cab ride that had cost him half a fortune, some nurse at the information graciously explained to him that his dad had already signed himself out and was on his way home. 

Just to be sure, he checked his phone for any messages or missed calls, but no one had bothered to inform him. 

The nightmare didn't end there. Once he got to his parents' place, all his dad did was yell over the fact that he was taken to the hospital in the first place, filled with rage and anger, throwing around whatever was in reach. It was only when his brother threatened to pull out his gun that the old man finally calmed and even let himself be put to bed. When Brock tried to check-up on him an hour later, his dad looked at him with nothing but disgust. Asking for his other son instead. 

Brock slept on the couch instead of his old room, couldn't bare the thought of spending another night there. He fixed whatever was fixable from the things his dad had thrown around and cleaned up the rest, long until midnight. 

"This isn't him," his mother tried to assure Brock on her way to bed. "He's scared. That's why he gets angry." 

"Whatever you say, mom," Brock told her, couldn't even look at her. Maybe this wasn't the kind of man, the kind of husband she knew. But it was the kind of father Brock was used to for years now. 

Alone with his own thoughts, Brock stared at the framed photos on the wall, the honors, the medals. At the one picture of himself. The only one. In his uniform. Almost twenty years ago. 

On Monday morning, Brock called the doctor himself to see if they had any idea what had caused the fall, but none of the tests at the hospital had revealed anything. 

"His heart is fine, his back is alright and his brain seems okay," the doctor told him. "Might have just been a careless step. Nothing to worry about. He's in good shape for his age." Brock nodded, but didn't know what to say. If he should be relieved. Any good son would be. But Brock felt nothing. "We would have liked to keep him longer, a concussion isn't really something to take lightly, so keep an eye out for any changes." 

"I will," Brock said, although he didn't know how. His father could barely stand having him under the same roof. 

He shouldn't have come. He had known the second he had called Rollins that it was going to be a mistake. A miserable mistake. 

Looking back down at his phone, he caught his reflection in the darkened screen. He looked like shit. He felt like shit. _'You're a great guy, Brock,'_ Steve's words echoed in his ear. Brock closed his eyes, replayed those words until he believed them._ 'You're a great guy.' 'A great guy'. 'It'll be my pleasure.'_ His hand on Steve's jaw. The images stirred his memories, stirred something so timid and startling in his stomach that he had to sit down for a second. Hide something else stirring in his jeans at the thought of how hard Steve had tried. For Brock. 

And suddenly, he was full of doubts. If someone who was right for him without trying, was really better than someone who was all wrong but kept fighting. Fighting despite being flawed. Maybe Brock was not only a coward, but a self depriving idiot for convincing himself to give up on Steve. 

At dinner, his brother promised to take care of the bills and Brock felt his insides turn over the fact that he, being the oldest, couldn't. That he could barely take care of his own bills. It took only a second before his father let him know too. 

"Don't look so stupid," he said. "You could have had your own house by now. You were in the Air Force for god's sake," he reminded Brock, looking deathly sick and deathly vile at the same time. "Could have had every last thing a decent man needs," he forced through dry lips. "But you couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you? Couldn't keep it in your pants. Now look at you. You did this to yourself." 

Brock stared down at his plate, couple of peas bathing in gravy. Sometimes, he missed his mom's food. Rarely. Most of the time the thought of home made him want to vomit. 

"Why are you here?" his father asked, wheezing and coughing with the effort of his hatred. "To watch me die? You make me sick. The sight of you makes me sick." 

It wasn't just Brock now, his mother and brother fell silent too. Brock took another deep breath, before he slowly stood up, picked up his phone and wallet, grabbed his jacket and stepped towards the door. 

"I'm going for a walk," he said, purposefully only looking at his mother as he spoke. 

"Can't bear to hear the truth, can you?" his father jumped in, spat as he talked, so eager to get those ugly words out. "Just look at yourself, you arrogant prick. You're a waste of my blood. Are you sure you're my son? Too good for the Army, weren't you? Better than your old man? Smarter? Stronger? So tough you'd only wrestle with the boys. Look where it's gotten you." 

"Away," Brock mumbled, reminded himself. "It got me away." 

"You're pisspoor and alone. But you think you're too good for this house?" his dad asked, fingers clasping the edge of the table. There was nothing he could do though. Too weak to even stand properly. To chase him around or away. 

"Always been," Brock said, and then turned for good in desperate need for air. Desperate need to breathe. To get his father's breath out of his lungs and out of his system. 

Lucky for Brock, it wasn't raining, but the sky was dark and the air was cold. Although it was just after five in the afternoon, the streetlights were burning already, guiding him further down the street. 

He looked around, tried to remember those houses from his youth, but the city changed so fast and he barely visited this neighborhood even if he was in town. Nothing felt familiar. 

No, this wasn't his home. Chicago was. Chicago was were he wanted to be right now, back where he felt like himself. Himself, with all those things he had done and all his mistakes. He wanted to go home. Leave right away and never return. 

He worked at an airport, but it didn't give him the same benefits of working for an airline. There was only one contact on his phone that had access to those benefits. One contact that may even understand. 

One contact he should have reached out to earlier. Once more he had been like those other guys. Had fucked Steve only to pretend he didn't exist after. Had fucked Steve and then pretended not to give a fuck afterwards. Maybe Steve had been a slut in the past, but Brock had treated him like one in the present. Had contributed to Steve's issues. 

So what, if Steve was complicated? If he was a lot of work? Maybe it was time for Brock to roll up his sleeves and get to it. 

He pulled out his phone, a couple of lone raindrops from a tree above landed on the screen. Brock wiped them off with the heel of his palm and took a deep breath. To protect himself a little from the harsh weather, he huddled up against the side of a nearby store, the neon lights offering some comfort. 

To Steve 5:14PM  
any chance you can help me get a flight out of nyc and back to chicago? 

It was a shitty thing to do. To text those words, half a joke and half a plea, and to text them out of nowhere. After days of silence. After convincing himself that he wasn't still thinking about Steve. That Steve wasn't still everywhere. Still with Brock in his worst moments. He should apologize. He wanted to apologize. Asking Steve for help was his way to apologize. 

From Steve 5:16PM  
First flight tomorrow morning if it isn't fully booked. Why? 

Brock's breath hitched on that glimmer of hope and then all air rushed out of him. They were still on good terms. And Brock would just apologize in person later. 

He could make it another night. Stay out till his dad was in bed and then leave before he even woke. Sure it wasn't fair to his mother to just get the fuck out of there, but if his brother was so eager to take care if things, he could take care of their dad just fine. Brock didn't care anymore. He wanted to get on that plane to Chicago. 

To Steve 5:18PM  
you'd be sparing me days of pain. it's a long story. a family thing. i have a flight booked for wednesday but i'd give everything to leave early. 

Usually, Brock wasn't one to pour his heart out via text messages, but he thought he'd owed Steve just that much honesty for his offer. And maybe he wanted to make up for his silence. Show Steve that he was still the person he'd promised to be. 

It took Steve a while to get back to him, and Brock's feet grew restless with the cold that crept in through the soles of his shoes. It wasn't supposed to be this cold in September. This early into fall. Brock's fingers gripped his phone so tight he feared the case might break, feared he'd go insane over a stupid text message. One that was still missing. He needed a distraction. He needed something to do. Anything. With the lack of options, he headed into the store, browsing the aisles for anything to look enticing. He got himself a coke from the cooler and some chips from a nearby shelf. His appetite wasn't back yet, but he craved some food nonetheless, if only to be reminded of his own humanity. He lingered on a little toy collection, one of the planes catching his eyes. 

He was back out when his phone finally buzzed with a reply. 

From Steve 5:31PM  
You're lucky. They still had free seats. I'll forward you the boarding pass. 

For all his father's talk about what a tough guy Brock pretended to be, he was shamelessly close to shedding a tear now. He scrunched up the bag of chips so it barely fit in the pocket of his jacket and tucked the plastic bottle under his arm. With all ten fingers cradling his phone, Brock read the message again. He couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe Steve fucking Rogers. Maybe Captain America was some sort of hero after all. 

Brock was about to reply, when a second later, he got another text from Steve. Just the booking reference, so he could download the boarding pass. 

Definitely a hero. Then and there, and to Brock, Steve was a goddamn superhero. 

To Steve 5:33PM  
you're saving a man's life. maybe i can take you out sometime? as a thank you? 

Yes, Steve was difficult. He was a big fat hassle. And overwhelming still. But he was Brock's fucking savior, so he was going to be Brock's fucking problem. A problem he would solve. Brock was going to repay Steve. He was going to take Steve on a goddamn date. On a real date. He was going to man up. Be patient and understanding. Treat Steve right and look after him. Like he had sworn to do as Steve was spread out in front of him. A body begging for love. A soul begging for help. 

From Steve 5:36PM  
Should have told you that I'm going to be flying the plane. 

Brock's heart jumped, raced over the knowledge that Steve wasn't even that far. That he was in New York or getting here before tomorrow morning. That he wasn't time zones away or with someone else right now. Someone who didn't care about Steve the way Brock did. Someone who would use him. Then drop him. Another pair of hands. Another pair of lips. It didn't matter. One more didn't matter. Compared to all those people in Steve's past, Brock could look past that one. It was his own fault. He hadn't texted Steve. Hadn't shown him that he was interested in more than sex. This one was Brock's fault and he wouldn't hold it against Steve. 

To Steve 5:37PM  
so you didn't get me on a flight that was somehow doomed? we both know i would have deserved it. 

The images slid back into his mind. The muscles on the back of Steve's thighs, the skin above his ribs and below the small of his back. His fingers grasping the sheets like his father had grasped the edge of the table. No, nothing like it. Steve willing to have him, have him around, have him inside. Steve wanting Brock. Needing him so desperately. And Brock letting him down after. 

But Steve wouldn't be texting Brock if he was with someone else. Hopefully, he wouldn't text Brock if he were. 

From Steve 5:39PM  
No, I got you on the flight with the best pilot currently on duty. 

The text made Brock smile for the first time that night. Made him feel lighter somehow and warm. All he wanted to do was hold onto it. 

To Steve 5:40PM  
and is captain america open to that invitation? 

"Come on, Steve," Brock mumbled into the night, fingers caressing the screen as if his touch could convince him. "Give me a chance," he whispered, shaking out his knees and then rocking on his toes to warm his feet. He really wanted to see him. Be good to him. Apologize to his entire body. Grow with the challenge. Rise up to it. Find a way to tame Steve's sexuality. Rein him in until Steve could regulate those urges on his own. Sometimes love was doing what needed to be done. Was work first. 

From Steve 5:44PM  
I have just that one flight tomorrow. How about we head back to my place afterwards? If you're free. 

Brock sighed, his breath heavy in the air. "Jesus, Steve," he muttered. Of course, Steve would think that Brock was talking about sex. Of course, Steve would offer it. Steve didn't know what dates were. Not really. That they weren't meant to necessarily end in sex. 

Steve wanted to see Brock. Sleep with him. Again. Just a week after their last encounter. The thought made Brock nervous. There was a lot to figure out beforehand and he hadn't had any time to do his research. He didn't know yet what Steve needed. What they needed. He didn't know yet how to offer whatever that was. 

But he wasn't going to back out now either. Back away from the trouble. Not again. Being with Steve, getting there, was going to be a long walk.   
  
And he was willing to take every step. ... 

To Steve 5:49PM  
i'll pay for the cab. 

... Figuratively. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brock is still a certified mess™, but he's our mess now okay? 🙈

It was before dawn when Brock closed the front door behind him. He left a note, not out of courtesy, but because he didn't want it held against him that he was too selfish to. 

He felt the cold fingers the second he stepped onto the street, blood freezing in the veins on the back of his hands, and he buried them deep in his pockets, holding onto his phone for comfort. 

It took him a while to get to the airport, heading to the subway first and then on the train. His eyes were tired and every now and then he felt a full body shiver engulf his entire frame. But he was leaving. He was going home. 

To his surprise, the crowd at check-in was much smaller than expected, the airport only waking up itself. He got through security within minutes, nothing on him or in his bag that would set off any alarms. He knew what to pack and how so that there was no confusion, no held up. He wore sneakers that were easy to slip on and off, a tight fitting simple long sleeve and jeans with a little stretch. After all, he wanted to be comfortable during the flight without looking like a slob in sweats. Nothing worse than a slob in sweats who wouldn't even bother to pull up his pants before he stepped into the scanner. 

There was, of course, that knowledge too that he wouldn't be heading home right away. That he would be with Steve. At Steve's place. So, he wanted to look good for that too. Wanted to look dressed down and still presentable. Casual but still as if he made an effort. With his unshaven face and the darker rings under his eyes, he would hardly look like it though. 

Hopefully, Steve would understand. 

The thought of Steve made Brock clench his fingers with the sudden rush of adrenaline. The last time they'd been together both of them hadn't been sober. And it had been night. Everything had been somewhat surreal. Like it hadn't been _them_. But different versions of them from a different timeline. Now they were going to face each other in daylight. Clear minds and no excuses. 

Different kind of firsts. 

He got himself some food, the same stuff he usually had for lunch in Chicago. All airports were the same. Then he checked the flight information display, eyes roaming over the letters and numbers until he found the correct gate for his departure. 

So far, this day had started off better than ninety percent of his mornings at work. 

He hadn't seen Steve in a week. Seven days. Hadn't heard his voice, had just read his thoughts digitally processed. Now, as he was sat in his seat, Steve was only a few feet away, in that cockpit with its locked doors. 

They hadn't been locked when he'd boarded, but two of the flight attendants, people he thankfully didn't recognize, had so skillfully blocked his view that Brock had only caught a glance of someone's back in a dark blue jacket. 

'Steve', he thought. He knew. 

But there was no time to linger on it. 

Brock was sat in a middle seat, of course, squeezed between an elderly man at the window and a business woman at the aisle. He glanced down at her shoes, high heels well above two inches. In the case of evacuation she was required to slip them off and leave them behind. Otherwise she would slow everyone down and her unsteady walk could add to the security risks. It was just plain stupid to fly in them, bare feet so much more vulnerable during an emergency. But Brock knew most of the travellers didn't care, and the companies with their dress codes cared even less. 

She was on a flight with Captain America though. According to most of the chatter between pilots that meant it was going to be smooth sailing from takeoff to landing. 

Brock's own feet were restless, squeezed under the seat in front of him, his backpack tucked in between. He was lucky he wasn't as tall as Rollins or he'd be having a worse hour and a half. He had already put his seatbelt on, but used his thumb to play with the buckle, pushing it up letting it snap back without ever releasing it all the way. 

His heart was beating in a rush, from the lack of sleep, the busy plane around him. Overhead bins still being filled with laptop bags, loose jackets and hand-luggage, a couple swapping seats in the row across the aisle. Somewhere in the back a baby cried from the stress. Brock wished he had brought headphones, but it was the one thing he'd forgotten to pack in his rush on Saturday. 

The flight attendants made their first announcements and although Brock probably took the security information more seriously than any of the other passengers on board, he was preoccupied with preparing himself for the fact that sooner or later he was going to here Steve's voice too. For the first time since he told Brock that Steve Rogers didn't stay the night. 

Brock regretted the tight shirt now, sweat soaking uncomfortably into the fabric beneath his arms. At least it was dark enough so that he had a chance to hide his nerves from Steve later. 

When they were going to see each other. 

For the first time since Steve had stumbled out the door in his hurry to get away from Brock. 

Brock took a deep breath, elbows squeezed to his side as both armrests were occupied and folded his hands in his lap, fingers tapping and kneading all over the place. Lucky for him, Steve couldn't see him like that. Tense. Restless. Nervous. 

None of the flight attendants looked familiar and Brock figured the cabin crew was based somewhere else, probably New York, heading out while the cockpit crew headed home. It lowered the chances of the two getting involved, of people having spent the night in some hotel room. 

With Steve though, chances were never low enough. 

Brock closed his eyes during takeoff, not knowing where to look with the old guy blocking the window and the woman next to him lost in a pile of papers with nothing but numbers on them. 

Numbers that must have been important, as she studied them intently, glasses pushed up into her dark hair. Absently, she traced the lines with her finger, counting along silently, bottom lip twitching every now and then. 

Brock knew that Steve fucked women too, but didn't know what his type was. If he even had one. Or if he didn't care, like he didn't care when it came down to men. She did look like his type though, and Brock couldn't bear the sight of her. 

It was twenty minutes into the flight, maybe half an hour after boarding was completed that the intercom cracked and Brock held his breath. He knew right then this second, he just knew, that this was going to be it. 

This wasn't going to be the flight attendants voice that he felt already so familiar with. It was going to be this man he fucked. This guy he couldn't stand on a good day, but who he remembered buttnaked in his bed, one of the better memories of his life. His-- , 

-his what? 

His lover? The person he'd texted with a handful of times? The one granting him a favor when he desperately needed it? The person he was--, 

-he was what? 

He didn't have a crush. He wasn't going to fall in-- 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," Steve said, his voice the only thing Brock could focus on. Cabin noise forgotten, the shuffling papers to his right, the old man's rattling breaths to his left. Brock bit his lip, pressed the bundle of balled up nervous hands down onto his stirring dick. 

Fuck. 

This wasn't what he thought would happen, his body jumping at the mere sound of Steve's voice. Thoughts jumping back to the glance he caught of Steve's back. His goddamn beautiful back. His back when Brock fucked him from behind, The pale skin and the blushing neck. Now it was Brock whose cheeks were flushed, who could feel the heat beneath his collar and in his pants. Jesus, this couldn't be healthy, sporting a hard-on thirty thousand feet above the air with no chance of relief. 

"My name is Steve Rogers and on behalf of my copilot and me I'd like to welcome you here on board for this short flight to Chicago." Someone actually whistled over the mention of Steve's name. Flight crews and airport personnel knew about nicknames. Knew about reputations. Passengers rarely did, unless they were frequent travellers, which this one seemed to be. Frequent traveller. Or one of Steve's ex-fucks. Brock didn't know which one was more likely. 

He squeezed his eyes tight, definitely not thinking about Steve holding out on him patiently before their first kiss. His voice tender yet cocky._ I don't bite_. No, Steve Rogers didn't bite. But the memory of him stung like a paper cut and ached like an old injury on a damp cold morning. Ached everywhere. And now the ache latched onto the memories, his body craving to take another hit. 

"Remaining flight time now," Steve went on, left everyone hanging on a short pause then in which he hummed on the last word, "about fifty minutes, touch-down at approximately nine fifteen." 

Brock swallowed. Nine fifteen. And then he won't be heading home. Will be heading for their captain's place instead. To resume whatever they've started. So carelessly. So unexpectedly. The bulge in his jeans pressed uncomfortably against his wrist, but Brock didn't dare to move it. He needed to calm down. Think of anything other than Steve. 

"We've been told there's a clear sky over O'Hare on this sunny morning, so we expect it to be a smooth one," Steve told them. He sounded like he was looking forward to their arrival. Maybe he was. Maybe Brock was wishing he was. "We hope you can sit back, relax and enjoy your time on board with us today." 

_Relax_, Brock thought. He needed his dick to relax. He needed his godforsaken heart to relax. Steve Rogers wasn't a lover. He wasn't a boyfriend. He was a slut and no one begged a slut for a second night. If Rollins would see him now, he'd smack some sense into him. He was helping Steve. He was helping Steve become something someone could fall in love with. Eventually. One day. Someone. Not Brock. 

He was helping Rogers out, the way Steve helped him out getting on this plane. They were helping each other out in bed, getting Brock through a dry spell and getting Steve to settle his urges. No one knew and no one would ever find out it happened. 

Maybe someday down the line, Steve and Brock could be seen together. Months from now. A year maybe. When Captain America was known for something other than his stats in the bedroom. When Steve was ready to fall in love himself. Fall for Brock maybe. God knew, he was longing for it. Needed love more than any stray cat or orphaned child. 

Maybe. 

Maybe they'd go their separate ways in the weeks to come. 

It took Brock another minute to regain some self control, erection flagging some seconds later. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Getting hot and bothered over Steve fucking Rogers. Pity was one thing. Mercy. Sympathy. Understanding who Rogers was deep down. How fucked up he was, damaged and terrified of anything emotional. Wanting to undo that damage. See him change and grow. That was just who Brock was. Cock leaking for that self-centered asshole? That was a different thing. He really needed to get a grip or he was going to lose his goddamn mind over Chicago's cheapest whore. 

He wasn't one to drink in the morning, but he craved something to take the edge off now. Coffee wouldn't do, would just fuzz his brain out even more. And he was long beyond camomile and lavender. 

Steve had promised them a smooth touch-down and he delivered with grace. Some people clapped like it was 1998. The flight attendant reminded everyone to stay seated until the final parking position was reached. Brock shivered again, tired and cold and with very little protocol to go by. He had never hooked up with a pilot before Steve, never after a flight. 

He didn't know where to go. Where to wait. They hadn't talked about it. He followed the crowd's stream down the aisle and then past the gates towards arrivals. He checked the time, hoping it wasn't anyone's break, but then decided to hover by the exit a while longer, not passing the sliding door towards the open space just yet. He couldn't afford to run into anyone. They couldn't. He kept his head down although he knew no one would be looking for him here, but he didn't want to take any chances and be seen. 

From all his time spent in arrivals, he knew that flight crews passed that same exit, if they weren't scheduled for a connecting flight or would head back on their same plane. They just took a little longer than most passengers, so Brock let all of them walk by, clutching the strap of his backpack for sanity. 

He shifted from one foot to the other, praying that Steve was going to be alone. That he had enough common sense to find Brock without company. He must know, Brock thought, he must know I'll be waiting here. 

A minute passed, two, and Brock's knees seemed to loose marrow with every second. He stared down the corridor, heart beating in his hands, his ears, the back of his neck and down his spine. He hadn't seen him since that night, since that fight, since Brock had come while inside his body. Twice. 

Steve had his eyes on his phone when he turned the corner, so Brock spotted him first, all the way down the clean floors, with spotless shiny shoes and a black leather bag slung around his shoulder. He moved with purpose, long strides and a quick pace. He wanted to get out of here as much as Brock wanted to. 

When he looked up, his eyes fell straight onto Brock, who only noticed now-- _and seriously, when did that happen?_ \--that he was already smiling. 

Steve nodded at him, brows covered by his captains hat, casual, confident and so goddamn sexy that Brock forgot to breathe for a second. Forgot where they were. 

Brock wasn't fond of that goddamn uniform. Hated it honestly. And he had seen Rogers in it thousands of times. This time was different. This time, the sight of it made him sweat. This time he wanted to look longer. Then take it off Captain Rogers and find Steve underneath. 

"Come on, let's go," was the only thing Steve said as he passed Brock, barely sparing him another glance. 

Right. 

They weren't lovers reunited. 

"Took you long enough," Brock replied, trying to hide the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to go about the situation, trailing after Steve with just enough distance to hide behind his frame without giving the impression that they belonged together. 

They didn't. 

Outside Steve slid into the backseat with ease, making room as he went so Brock could get in after him immediately. They left O'Hare behind within seconds. 

Brock huffed when Steve pulled off his cap and gave his address to the driver. It was either convenience or his fucking obsession with his job that made Steve live so close to the airport. Brock didn't want to ask. He shouldn't even care. He wasn't going to step by more often than this anyway. 

Steve looked over at him briefly, but didn't ask what was so funny either. Not like they cared what the other thought. Then he settled back into his seat, turning towards the window. 

"You had a good flight?" he asked quietly, eyes on the world outside. 

Brock watched his features for a moment, trying to figure out whether Steve had asked out of genuine curiosity or for his ego. 

"Had a good pilot, so-," Brock said, letting the conclusion slide. 

Steve nodded, still not looking at Brock. Up close, he didn't look well. Different from the guy in the uniform that had walked down the corridor. Dissatisfied with the flight. Almost sad. 

And Brock didn't know how to handle it. 

He let his gaze drop to Steve's hands, pale fingers over the dark blue of his pilot cap. He wanted to reach out, assure Steve of something. Anything. That Brock was right there. Right here with him. 

They didn't do that though. 

They fucked and they texted. 

And Brock let the moment pass in silence. 

Steve's apartment complex was a fucking palace and he felt out of place from the security desk to the elevator to the hallway. 

To Steve's living room. 

The entire place was some high-end designer catalogue scene, warm colors over smooth shapes, dimmed lights and high windows. Clean and organized. Welcoming to a certain degree, impersonal on a closer look. 

Steve put his bag down, then slid Brock's backpack off his shoulder with gentle hands. Leaning into the brief contact, Brock closed his eyes at the touch. Exhaustion threatened to catch up with him and he let his mind get carried away with images of him and Steve in bed, wrapped up in each other's arms, heavy-lidded and sleep-warm. 

Without warning, Steve moved towards him, tearing him from a far enough future, from that lazy dream, crowded Brock against the door until he felt the wooden frame against his shoulder blades. But Brock was security. Ex-military. It took a little more to have him worried and he knew better than to flinch. 

Hands on either side of Brock's head, Steve faced him for the first time that morning. He was in his socks already and with the shoes still on, Brock gained an inch on that damn height difference. Not that Steve seemed to care. He was heated with stress, frustrated. Looked like he'd had a shitty day and was ready to take it out on Brock. A punching bag not for his anger but for sex. A miserable animal trapped in its instincts. 

"Did you fuck someone?" Brock asked, thoughts out there before he had time to rethink them. Rephrase them. Keep them buried or hide them somewhere. He had to know. "This week, did you fuck someone?" he asked again, his voice low but steady and clear this time. Truth too loud for their ears anyway. 

Brock felt Steve's breath against his bottom lip. Felt Steve's heartbeat that set the air on fire. A rhythmic battle cry from deep within his body. 

"No," he said, teeth there when he spoke, perfectly straight and white, keeping back his anger but showing his rage. He held Brock's gaze, held it hostage. Invisible force. Gravity. His eyes staring Brock down defiantly. "No, Brock," he told him for a second time. "I didn't fuck anyone." 

The slightest nod of Brock's head, the smallest motion without intent. "Good," he muttered, had lost all the strength of his question. Apparently, Steve took the change they had talked about seriously. Brock had helped open his eyes to his behavior. And although it had been brutal, for both of them, it had been right. And for the best. "I'm sure you could have," Brock said, almost in an afterthought. Of course, Steve could have. But Brock was glad he didn't. 

"Wouldn't mind doing it now," Steve said, eyes moving down to Brock's mouth. Out of reflex, Brock licked his lips first, then swallowed. Part of him knew that some people would say that he owed Steve. But sex didn't work like that. There were no scores to keep. So what if Steve had blew him once? Brock had fucked him twice. Fingered him too. And God knew, Steve was difficult to satisfy. Like most people who were like him, did what he did so often, when it came to sex, everything in Steve was muted and numb. He needed more and more to make up for it. There were enough stories out there to know that a blowjob to Steve was another man's hug. And that with fucking him twice that night, it was Brock who had done him a favor. He didn't owe Steve a single thing. The opposite was true. 

"Shower first?" Brock asked, glancing down to the stains beneath his armpits. Fucking nervousness catching up with him again. No wonder his mouth was as dry as three days old toast. He couldn't even remember the last time he had showered. Definitely some time before he rushed back to New York City. God, he was fucking gross. "I didn't really have a chance," he started, but felt stupid explaining his lack of basic hygiene. "Not trying to take advantage, I swear," he said instead, "bet the bathroom's nice too though." 

There was a hint of disappointment in Steve's eyes, but a second later he stepped to the side and gestured towards a door off at the side. "Through the bedroom," he told Brock, shrugging off his jacket and placing it neatly on a hanger. 

"Join me?" Brock asked. He had a feeling the shower would be big enough for two. And he didn't want to leave Steve here. With whatever had happened to him. With whatever went through his mind. He wanted Steve closer. Closer all the way. 

Steve hesitated, brushed his palms over the front of his shirt to even out the fabric. Brock could see and feel the reluctance. It was heavy and heartbreaking. 

"Come on," Brock tried. "It's just a shower." 

As anticipated, the shower in Steve's bathroom was huge and Brock stared in awe for a second before he turned it on, the water taking only a couple of seconds to heat up. 

Brock stepped in first, pile of clothes on the bathroom floor, the spray steaming and raining down on him with heavenly pressure. The smallest moan slipped from his lips, his tired body bathing in the sudden comfort of water and warmth. 

Steve watched him from the side, naked, bare, breathtaking. Didn't move an inch until Brock urged him with an aggressively gesturing hand and a commanding tone that Brock liked to save for his hours at work. "Alright, get in here, Rogers." He wanted Steve with him. Now. He wanted Steve. 

For long seconds the water did nothing to wash Steve's cologne off him, the scent that still clung to Brock's pillows, to the sheets in the washer, that fucking towel that he would never use again. With Steve's body right in front of him, all wet and flushed from the heat, Brock felt his blood rushing south and couldn't stop himself anymore. He stepped up, closed his eyes and pulled Steve close by his neck. Just like he'd done it before, a week ago in this same city but in a different spot. Steve's lips were soft as Brock's pressed his own against them, let Steve take it from there. They were going to be okay. 

Steve kissed him slow at first, tongue only grazing Brock's lips before he let his seek out Brock's all the way into his mouth. Brock opened up for him on reflex, part of him ready and willing to give to Steve whatever he needed to return to his other self. The charming, talkative asshole. But another part of Brock was aware that stress wasn't Steve's only problem. That Steve was his own problem. All the time. This version and the other. The arrogant pilot, the easy lay. 

And suddenly all the blood heading for his cock, pooled in his stomach instead, thick and heavy, and sickening. Splashing water impossibly loud on the floor tiles. 

When Brock broke the kiss, he put his mouth on Steve's shoulder, kissed him there, a helpless apology, then just let his lips rest against his skin. They were going to be okay one day. Sometime down the road. He wrapped his hands around Steve, gliding through the soft scattering stream of water, roaming over his back. Over the skin he loved so much. 

"You're tense," Brock said, mumbled the words into Steve's collarbone as he dug his fingers into the muscles beneath his shoulder blades. Steve wasn't the only one though. "You can't stand being held, can you?" he asked, not knowing if he could stand holding him either. 

Tenderness was unfamiliar to Steve. He could only bare it, if it was laced with sex. Had to reject it otherwise, believing he didn't deserve it. Brock forced himself to hold onto him. Convincing both of them that it wasn't true. 

"No," Steve said, brutally honest, his voice echoing through his bones and the shower cabin, and Brock wondered if there was a more recent reason Steve thought he was undeserving of Brock's touch. If maybe he had lied before, had spent the night with other people. 

Not thinking much about it, Brock let one hand slip down Steve's body, onto his ass, wondering if the touch could help him find some peace of mind. And satisfy Steve while he was on his quest. 

Steve tensed up more that same second Brock moved his fingers between his cheeks, body stiff with shame and worry, and Brock's suspicions were raised even further. 

"Relax," Brock tried, low and gentle. The sound of running water and splattering heavy drops blanketing their conversation. He wasn't checking if Steve had been lying to accuse him later. Or make him feel bad about it. He wasn't. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that Steve hadn't been with anyone else. Believe that Steve had meant it when he proclaimed his fresh start. Now, he simply wanted to be, well, sure. "It's me, remember?" he said quietly, keeping his hand still for a moment. 

Out of desperation, Brock held Steve in a firm embrace, suddenly scared that he was going to run away again. He knew about it. About Steve and his past and his body. He'd seen it before. "Just giving you what you asked for." 

The reassurance seemed to work and Steve softened in his arms ever so slightly even before he got those last words out. He knew that Brock was going to look after him. No matter what. Even if he'd lied again. Tried to hide relapses and mistakes. 

With Steve's permission, Brock resumed his inspection, fingers finally reaching Steve's beautiful rim. With a shuddering breath that Brock forced through his nose, he kissed Steve's shoulder again, happy, relieved, proud. 

It was obvious that Steve hadn't deceived him, that he hadn't slept with anybody. And Brock let himself fall deeper into Steve's body, imagining how much better his body would feel like now. Hole closed up and tucked in. A bit tighter, recovering from its past. Remaking itself for Brock. He lined up the tips of two fingers when he felt his dick stir once more, wrist trembling with how much he just wanted to dip them inside. To feel the small change from all sides. 

He placed a finger right at the center of Steve's rim, remembering how easy it went in that first time. Shockingly easy. Despite what Brock had been told at work, he hadn't been prepared for Steve's passive entrance then. 

It was difficult for Brock to believe that, deep down, Steve could still be so enthusiastic about sex as he pretended to be. Not when he couldn't feel the drag of it, the sensation of being pushed into, of being connected somewhere. Not unless there was more than a reasonably sized cock inside his poor body. 

"This good?" he asked, water flowing over his lips as he spoke. They still felt dry and sticky. "You need this, don't you?" he added, knowing it in his heart. 

Whatever he did, whatever he was going to do, it was for Steve and Steve only. Brock didn't need his fingers up Steve's ass, it was Steve who needed another fill. Steve wanted this. He hadn't been with anyone else for Brock. For them. Now he begged Brock to breach him once more. 

Steve nodded his confirmation. Inhaled sharply, his mouth so close to Brock's ear. 

Brock added more pressure to his fingers, stopping abruptly when he had trouble slipping more than one tip in. "You've been practicing," he noticed, Steve's rim still soft and pliant, but with more strength beneath it. Strength that was keeping Brock out. "A lot." 

"That so?" Steve huffed, barely audible, but he still sounded a little smug. 

Brock turned his finger, muscle almost tight around him, almost like a normal hole. Steve was lucky like that, his body healing from the past abuse. Brock didn't bother with the effort of fucking Steve with that first finger, just edged it to the side to make room for the next. This was Steve after all. 

"Slow down," Steve said, breathy and rushed, suddenly playing the virgin. His dick poked rock-hard into Brock's stomach though, couldn't fill fast enough once Brock had just grazed over his hole. Revealing Steve's nature despite his words. 

"You need time to adjust?" Brock asked, thinking about humoring him for a while. Wasting a bit of foreplay for Steve to save face. But then Steve's hole gave in, liquidizing with the hot water flowing down his spine, all that enticing tightness fading away, transforming into the mellow sleeve that Brock was so unbearably familiar with. "And there it is," he said to himself, didn't mean to mock Steve though. He just knew that it would take Steve longer than a week to get to a satisfying grip. A lot longer. 

With two fingers in, there was nothing left of the initial resistance, Steve's loneliness mirrored in the emptiness of his body. Brock spread his fingers, let the water run around them while his half hard cock was torn between arousal and revulsion. 

Brock hadn't lied when they'd been this close before, in his bedroom all across the city, when he'd said he could do it all day. He hadn't been much into it before, but he didn't mind playing with Steve's ass now. He enjoyed it more the longer it went on. But it was pain and pleasure all the same. It was captivating and disappointing. Satisfying and disturbingly unfulfilling. Not just for Brock. For Steve too, insatiable and with poor impulse-control. It was good for him though, someone, Brock, taking the time to finger it out of his system. 

Slowly, he would get Steve to calm down, need it less and less. He would become more and more sensitive again the less he'd be forced open. And then eventually the stretch of Brock's cock would be enough. 

And this time around, Brock wouldn't lose patience with it. If other guys could find pleasure in these generous holes, he'd find a way to do so too. The effort would only make sex with Steve more special. 

Brock used his thumb to massage the rim from the outside, hoping it would remind Steve of his muscle and the work he should put into it, then dipped it between his fingers when Steve didn't even twitch. Empty soul making for an endlessly hollow body. Aching to be filled with another person's warmth. Another person's love. 

"This reminding you of last time?" Brock asked, thinking of his cock wedged between his fingers. How much Steve had needed that stretch and yet felt so little of it. How little Brock had felt of it. Both of them frustrated with the overused stale pit at the core of Steve's body. Soon this would all be in the past for good. Nothing was beyond repair. 

Steve nodded again, the embarrassment silencing him as usual. A little shame could be a good thing. At times. For someone like Steve, who was behaving so shamelessly all the time, it was a good thing. If it made him reconsider his lifestyle. 

Brock doubted that any of the other men had seen Steve like that. They would have praised him for being so easy and ripe. For taking every last inch with room to spare. 

"I'm not doing that today," Brock told him gently. He knew Steve had invited him here for sex, but Brock wanted more than that. He stretched Steve a little wider though, giving him _something _to feel there at least. 

Steve moaned, swaying back onto Brock's fingers. "Okay," he stammered. It was difficult for him to accept. "What are you going to do then?" he asked, pushing into Brock's body for a second, then pulling back, fucking himself with or without intent. 

"Looks like you're already doing most of the work anyway," Brock told him, tightening his arm around Steve to give him more of his fingers. 

"You know me," Steve said, panting by now. "Can't stand being held," he added and then pushed away from Brock's body again until Brock's fingertips hit the spot he was aiming for. 

"Tough luck," Brock said, pulling Steve closer with his free hand, thrusting his hips against Steve, trapping his cock for more friction. He wanted Steve to come apart in his arms. 

Steve wasn't protesting Brock's touch anymore, but refused to embrace him in return. Steadying himself with his hands up against the wall behind Brock instead. Fingers sliding over the wet tiles at first until he forced them still, grip inexplicable to Brock who could barely stop his own hand from slipping from Steve's skin. 

His own cock seemed to have comfortably, or rather uncomfortably settled for its half-hard state, going through the motions, the thought of Steve so close and just as irritatingly distant. 

He wanted to kiss him again. Longer. Wished he'd never stop kissing Steve. Now all that Brock had left of him was a handful of ribcage and meaningless nothingness where countless other men had paved a well-walked yet neglected path. 

"Let me," Steve started, body and mind worked up from the penetration. Breathing so heavy into Brock's ear that he had to tilt his head down on reflex. "Let me turn around," he managed to tell Brock who shook his head the second he had processed the words. 

"No," he said, digging his fingers deeper into Steve's skin. "Like this," Brock told him, although he knew there was nothing he could do to keep Steve in this embrace. If he wanted out, he'd find a way. "Please," Brock added out of desperation. He wanted Steve to come between them, not facing a blank shower wall, shooting his load onto smooth ceramics, water rushing to take those traces away one second to the next. 

He's had Steve's come on his sheets, but never on his skin. Not even on his hands, regretted it now. The way they've both been riding their highs alone, disconnected somehow, Steve's used-up hole a desolate canyon between them. 

Steve kept his hands away from Brock's body, but didn't fight him on their position. Rocked his hips back and forth, handing himself over to the pleasure of the impending climax. 

"Don't hold back, yeah?" Brock said, went for a gentle tone but it came out all desperate and unnecessarily needy._ I got you_, was what he wanted to say. I got you and I'm not letting you go. "I got you," he tried quietly, not sure why it took so much out of him to spell it out. 

To say that it was overwhelming, would be an understatement. Steve, with his back turned, in dry sheets and wet only from sweat, from lube, was nothing compared to Steve here. In damp air and under the pouring spray, spattered drops over heated reddened skin, rising chest and open mouth, the smallest shiny beads catching in his lashes. 

"Fuck," Brock cursed, could barely stand the sight of him, head of Steve's cock pressing into Brock's stomach, his own dragging along Steve's hipbone with its full weight now, painfully late, tortured from indecision. "You mess with my head," Brock admitted, words uncalculated but heavy. "You mess me up all around," he said, pitying his aching dick and his racing heart alike. 

Anger, frustration, helplessness. Steve's ignorance. His rejections and Brock's stubborn insistences. Good intentions and hideous hopes. Steve's ice cold arrogance. Three fingers deep into Captain America, and although Steve was visibly distracted, he _felt_ unaffected still. Solid and stable. Balanced. Untouched. 

So Brock gave him a fourth. 

Any warning useless as Steve had already gotten so used to the stretch, he was back to his old form. His saggy easy-access entrance an open invitation. Number four was just as good a number as any. What Steve needed wasn't another body. It was another soul. 

"That for me or for you?" Steve asked, jaw tight but he got his question out without falter or pause. 

Brock put his lips back on Steve's shoulder, hiding from an answer, put his tongue on Steve's skin instead. And his teeth. 

'Both', he wanted to say. But it was only half true. 

He wanted Steve's body inside and out, spread over the tips of his fingers, leaving smudged prints in intimate, unspeakable places. Wanted to trace the seams as Steve came apart. Brock wanted him in his hands, raw and unfiltered, wanted to prod that toothless sunken cave of his until it was polished on the inside. 

Steve pushed against him with more force now, fucked his body against Brock's, getting himself off, quick, rough and selfish. Skin on skin, cock sliding over the contracting muscles of Brock's stomach, tension rising from his feet to his neck, water drizzling between them easing the friction. 

"Yeah," Steve said, mouth too close to Brock's ear again, violently acknowledging his silence. "Thought so," he said, hips thrusting as Brock adjusted his stance to brace himself. 

For a second, Brock was tempted to retrieve his fingers, leave Steve hanging, nothing left to rile him up from both ends. But instead he pushed deeper into Steve, edging him on, aiming for that spot to feel him twitch, to hear him moan. Guiding his movements from inside his own body, unwilling to surrender his claim. 

And Steve let him, shameless as he was, let Brock's messed up wants sit there between them, sit buried inside his body, shoved in harshly by the tips of Brock's fingers, unbothered by how fucked up it all was. Steve just took it. Brock trying to rid himself of how much he wanted Steve, trying to force the filthy need back into Steve's rotten body. Into Steve's goddamn sleazy and vulgar, addictively benign, hot-blooded and warm-hearted body. Into Steve, who no one could have. Not really. Not all of him. Into Steve who smiled often and so scarcely laughed. Into Steve who had helped him out, no questions asked. Into Steve who was all up in Brock's head. Who was all up in Brock's life. Forced himself right in the center of it. Even if it made Brock sick to admit it. 

And Steve took it all. Took it until he spilled himself all over the side of Brock's ribs, hot and thick, come trailing down to his bellybutton. Until Brock let his hand fall to his side, wrist aching and fingers screaming with the sudden loss, the maddening desire for Steve clinging to them still. Both of them breathless, water trickling from Steve's chin, down their chests, taking away drop after drop from what Brock had asked for. 

Had begged for. 

_Please_. 

"Better get out of here before the water's running cold," Steve said, but his voice was tender and unhurried. He let his forehead bump against Brock's shoulder, nudged the tip of his nose against the side of his neck. Too withdrawn, too detached for even a chaste kiss, for a brush of lips. Anything affectionate, emotional. 

And then he was gone. 

* * *

The towel was white. Impersonal and discreet. Smelled faintly of laundry detergent and fabric softener. It was big enough to wrap around Brock's entire body. 

"I want to watch you," Steve said out of the blue and off to the side. Keeping his distance. 

"Watch me do what?" he asked, trying to look at Steve when he couldn't. They've taken things a little too far and Brock was well aware of it. There was nothing to be done about it now though. 

"Get off," Steve told him, like he hadn't just come a minute ago. He was still naked, body somewhat dry but with his hair still wet. 

"Just me?" Brock asked, not quite liking where this was going. 

"Just you," Steve confirmed, taking the towel from Brock's hand. "Just you. On my bed," he went on, voice a little too roughed up from before to count as predatory, but close enough nonetheless. "I want to see what you like when you're alone." 

"I'm not alone though now," Brock offered, he'd rather fuck Steve two more times than let him watch getting himself off. 

"No," Steve said, showing off his body in the bright light of his own bathroom. "Now, I can watch." 

Brock could tell from the way Steve looked him that he was already imagining it. Imagined Brock touching himself not for his pleasure but Steve's. But when Brock imagined being watched by Steve, he immediately felt being watched for the purpose of being judged. 

Though Steve wasn't in a position to judge. 

"Why?" Brock asked, wondering if Steve was after the distance more than he was after the visual stimulation. If being held by Brock just now in the shower had him this scared of physical proximity. Intimacy. Brock didn't know if he could do it. Be with Steve without even being with him. Having sex without a single touch. He didn't know if it was how he wanted to get off. Or if he just wanted to leave instead. 

"Because it's hot," Steve insisted, voice so loaded with desire that Brock was tempted to believe him. That it had nothing to do with his fear of honest connection. 

"Watching me?" Brock asked again, still not entirely convinced. 

"And you getting to have me watch," Steve reminded him, but the idea was anything but _hot _to Brock. He still felt judged just thinking about it. Felt put under pressure by Steve's heavy gaze. 

"I didn't come here to jerk off," he told Steve, reminded himself. "Came here to see how you were doing, to say thank you." He didn't even come for sex in the first place. He didn't know how it happened and how it happened so fast and so intense. But it did. And now they were standing here with no clue how to move. Brock reached for the towel again, empty hands impossibly cold. "I didn't even know how this just happened," he echoed his own thoughts, pointed at the shower. Shook his head in disbelief. "I just wanted to spend time with you." 

"It's a really nice bed," Steve told him instead of focusing on what Brock had just said. He even reached for the door and pushed it open to show Brock where he wanted him. "Fresh sheets," he added as if to remind Brock that just a week ago, his hadn't been. 

"I've never done this," Brock said out of reflex, unable to find his way out of the situation. He wanted to take Steve out. On a date. And here he was arguing about masturbation. "I mean," he started again, realizing what he'd just said. "I have done it. Just not with anybody watching me." 

"Come on," Steve urged, "you haven't gotten off yet." That much was true. Brock was still half-hard, no less conflicted than before. He wanted Steve, but he didn't want _this_ Steve. "I'd be feeling selfish all day otherwise and you're still naked, so," he added with a smile before he let his eyes wander, causing Brock to fight all his instincts to hide. He felt vulnerable under Steve's gaze, as if he was the one who should be embarrassed. 

Steve had a way of twisting things like that. 

But Brock didn't have anything to be ashamed of and he wouldn't carry Steve's shame for him. 

Wouldn't let Steve put it on him. 

Instead, he tilted his chin up and dropped the towel from his hand, ran his fingers through his wet hair, pushed it all the way back. If Steve wanted to watch him, he better prepare for a good show. "Lead the way?" Brock offered but Steve didn't twitch. Remained where he was, shoulder against the wall, looking smug. 

"After you," he said instead, smirking over his victory. But Brock wasn't done fighting yet. 

His body felt numb when he walked towards the bed, but his cock filled out more with every step. He'd just put his butt on the edge of the mattress, but he could already tell that it was fucking expensive. Memory foam or whatever those sleep experts recommended in the commercials. 

He moved all the way onto the bed, trying to get comfortable and let his back know what thirty minutes of luxury felt like. 

The sheets were white, the comforter was white, the pillows were white. Like a goddamn hotel room. Probably not even white. Brock was convinced the packaging would read something like pearly cream or sunny champagne or some shit like that. It was the same white to him. 

"Make yourself at home," Steve told him, but nothing here resembled his home in the slightest so Brock had a hard time putting himself in the right mindset. 

Steve fumbled a bottle of lube out of his dresser and tossed it in Brock's direction, careful not to accidentally hit him. 

So this was going to happen. 

Steve put his ass down on a chair opposite the bed, practically lounging on those cushions as he watched Brock struggle to arrange his body somewhat natural. Natural and casual. 

"You sure this is what you're into?" Brock asked, trying to figure out how his dick hadn't gone soft yet. Nothing about this was particularly stimulating. Or sexy or whatever. Everything felt tense instead, both of them playing a stupid game when there wouldn't be any winners anyway. They were both stupid. Steve for inviting him, and Brock for being here. Steve for handing out his body to every second person he met, and Brock for being the one who took it. Steve for keeping his promises, and Brock for changing his mind. 

"What's the matter, Brock?" Steve asked, forcing Brock back into the scenery. Steve in that armchair, Brock on the bed. Steve hole still loose and Brock's cock achingly stiff. "That looks painful," Steve added, noticing, too, that Brock was beyond ready to be touched. Brock looked down at himself, not knowing what to do. Technically, he knew what to do. He knew how to get himself off. He just didn't know how to get himself off in a way that was _visually pleasing_. In a way that was good enough for Steve. 

"You never switch, do you?" Steve asked then, eyes moving to Brock's cock again. Lower even, maybe. There was sweat on Brock's forehead. 

"Are you gonna lecture me about it?" Brock asked, fed up with Steve's questions. With Steve's messy life. With Steve. "I just don't believe in all that," he admitted and reached down to wrap his fingers around his cock. It didn't matter anymore if Steve liked what he saw. Brock was going to make him watch whether he did or not. Even better if he didn't like it. 

"All what?" Steve wondered, glances jumping from Brock's crotch to his face and down again. 

"The gray shades," Brock said, his hips rolling with his own touch. It felt good. Good enough. Not as good as Steve's mouth. "The spectrums," he added, kept going with hands and thought. "The fluidity. All that shit that you're doing." 

He thought more of Steve's mouth with every stroke, the better hole of his, and Steve's tongue flat against his dick. 

"What I'm doing?" Steve repeated, tearing Brock from the blissful memory. "Or who I am?" 

Brock brought his other hand down between his legs to play with his balls. "People have preferences," he reminded Steve, reminded himself. His hand never going further than that. Not even when he's alone. 

"Other people," Steve told him, he was aroused, cock hard although he'd just been fingerfucked in the shower. "Not me," he added, naively convinced that it was possible. And Brock here still thinking he wasn't a lost cause. God, they were both so stupid. 

"Don't you think you're kidding yourself?" he asked, slowed down. His hand starting to feel too dry. Just that bit too much friction around the head. Borderline painful. Just like the conversation. 

"Don't stop," Steve told him, eyes on Brock's fingers. "And drop the knee," he added, ignoring what they've been talking about. Not that Brock cared. They weren't going anywhere with it anyway. "Let me see," Steve said, pleaded. Worked up from the view. From watching Brock. 

And to Brock's surprise his body reacted to the realization, cock flushed and stomach tight, chest swelling with some fucked up pride. 

He dropped his knee like Steve had told him to as he patted the comforter down to find the bottle of lube. He needed to get his palms wet first and then Steve's dick later. 

"Don't worry about making a mess," Steve said, rushing Brock along. Keen. Impatient. 

The lube felt different, too, from the one Brock had at home. Different texture. Long lasting, if Brock had to guess. And it probably cost double. 

"You never play with yourself when you do this?" Steve asked, watching Brock wet his fingers. At first Brock was going to reply with any available phrase along the lines of _not this again_, but when he looked up, he saw that faint messed up longing in Steve's eyes that told him that this wasn't about Brock's body at all. And it made him grin. 

"You want these instead?" he asked, showing Steve his fingers. He could basically feel Steve wrestle with himself, physically unable to turn the offer down. Verbally at least, as he still shook his head. "You sure?" Brock asked again, liked tantalizing him like that. Liked that both of them knew where Steve's place was. Where his preferences were at in reality. 

But Steve shrugged, committed to the physical distance and only stared at Brock as he brought his fingers closer to his cock. 

"Seems like you're starting to enjoy this after all," Steve said, pretending to be all feisty, but the thought of Brock fingering him again had him all twitchy and restless. He touched his own dick in desperation, too embarrassed probably to just go to that other spot. Brock knew from the sight of him that he wanted to. And Brock knew from experience that he could even take it dry. 

Brock wouldn't mind watching that in return some other day. 

"You didn't lie," he said, distracting himself as the image burned in the back of his head, grip melting subsequently over his cock. "It is a really nice bed." 

His dumb reply had coaxed the smallest laugh out of Steve, one of the scarce one. The ones that Brock didn't understand, but felt in his core as if it was his own goddamn happiness coming to light. 

"What if I like it," he said hesitantly, knowing Steve wouldn't appreciate what he was going to say. But had to say nonetheless. Feet apart and with his hand working down his wrung out cock. Exhausted all over. Why couldn't anything ever be easy with Steve. "Because it's you and me?" he wondered, relentless on his hands rhythm. He needed this to be over. "'Cause it's us," he forced out, breathless. He really needed it to be over. 

"I'd say," Steve said, cold and detached. "Don't ruin a good thing." 

The asshole. 

Brock huffed, chest heavy and his body itching all over from the strain of keeping still. "You don't mean that," he told Steve, facing him while he kept his body low, for Steve's sake. For his viewing pleasure. He didn't mean it. Deep down he didn't mean it. 

"No," Steve confessed, and Brock closed his eyes in relief, lost his grip around himself. "No, I don't," Steve said again, unaware that what he'd just admitted to was so much bigger than sex. So much bigger than Brock. Maybe they weren't that stupid after all. 

Maybe they were going to end up in a better place. Maybe Steve had given himself a second chance. Himself and Brock by extension. Maybe this wasn't the worst thing. Getting off here, like this. Away from each other. Steve needed this. 

And Brock could give it to him. Sex with Steve was good, but it wasn't _that _good either. Not that Brock would mourn the loss. He could do without it for a bit while Steve figured out his issues. While Steve learned to deal with emotions instead of those feral urges. One day he'll let Brock fuck him again, make him come again. Twice in one night. A third time in the morning. Because he'd stay over then. 

"You thinking of me fucking you?" Brock asked, wondering if Steve's head was where Brock's was. Torn between memories and fantasies. There was so much still that Brock hadn't been able to make Steve feel. 

"No," Steve said, couldn't admit to it. "Thinking of watching you do the exact same thing you're doing now only with my dick up your ass for a change," he told Brock instead. Couldn't let it go. This idea that Brock was the one with the issues. The one struggling with his sexuality. Projection was an art that Steve had mastered so well. 

"How'd you do it?" Brock asked, ready to picture Steve in his place. In whatever scenario Steve would come up with. He'd swap their places and be done with it. "How'd you fuck me?" 

"Here," Steve started right away, and so Brock imagined Steve spread out on his own bed, naked, arching his back. So eager for Brock. "With just my dick, don't worry," Steve went on, and Brock thought about Steve's hole down the line. Maybe he'll be able to do just that. Fuck Steve with just his dick and it'd be enough. "Wouldn't want to ruin that good look for you," Steve finished his speech and Brock was so close now. It didn't matter to him that Steve was trying to rile him up in a different way. The memory of Steve's ass was enough to keep Brock going. No, nothing was beyond repair. Certainly not Steve's mistreated cu- 

"-you know what's funny, Steve?" Brock asked, stopping himself. Forcing his thoughts to calm down, his anger to fade. He looked over, faced Steve again, although he wanted to throw his head back with the orgasm he knew was coming. "Denial," he added and then gave into his body reflexes, eyes shut and with his legs stretched out, twisting his wrist in just the right way. And then he let it all go, all the frustration and the stupidity. He braced himself with his heel on the mattress, hips working with his hand, perfectly coordinated as he shut all else out. His palm was warm and wet, tight over the shaft, softer on the head, tension building from his fingertips to the base of his cock, down to his balls, and the end of his spine. 

His breaths were rough and he choked on his own spit when that final touch send him tumbling, blood rushing beneath his skin, into his cheeks and down his chest, body sputtering his release into his fist, thick and hot, and a long time coming, knees shaking although Brock tried to keep them still. Everything out of his control. 

Brock kept his hand on his cock, impossibly wet, impossibly gross, as he softened slowly, squeezing gently with the aftershocks, head sensitive and tender. 

"Turn around," Steve said, suddenly next to the bed, bottle of lube in his hand. 

Brock's brain needed second after second to catch on, to register that he was being spoken to, that Steve wanted him to roll over, his eyes focused and determined. 

The world around him was still blurry and muted, Brock dazed from the bliss of his orgasm when he moved, caught up in the thought of Steve's naked body, fucked open for real this time. 

He was already on his front, sheets tangled around his cock, heavenly soft and too much all at once, when the realization hit him, heart racing in fear that Steve would do to him now what he'd just described. But before he had a chance to react to his panic, Steve had a hand on his shoulder and the other quite audible on his dick, jerking himself off over Brock's back, paying no attention to his bare ass. 

Brock listened to the slick hand stroking over the hard cock, listened to Steve's rugged breaths, wet too, like his fingers, hot as they ghosted over Brock's spine, brutally bare and raw in Brock's ears. He shut his eyes tighter, suddenly feeling misplaced, witness to something he shouldn't see, but Steve held him in place. Stronger, and lost in himself. Lost in his own touch that must feel incredible to him, because he made noises that Brock had never heard before. Private and passionate, so different from Steve in the shower or Steve in Brock's bed. 

Steve wanted him here, but Brock couldn't bear it much longer. This was what Steve called _hot_, what he wanted to watch Brock do, but it felt entirely wrong. Too much again, too messy, too intense. 

Steve didn't hold back, let his cock shoot all over Brock's spine, less than before, it must have been less than he'd painted Brock's stomach with, but it didn't feel like it. Instead, it felt like burning hot lashes, punishment for whatever crime Brock had committed. 

But it wasn't enough, it was never enough for Steve to just do what was normal. What was acceptable. What was tasteful. Instead he smeared his come all over Brock's back and neck, shoved it all the way up into his hair. And if that wasn't enough, he latched onto his own mess, licking all over the wet traces before they've even had a chance to dry. 

"Jesus Christ," Brock blurted into the pillow as Steve sucked on a sensitive spot, cleaning the skin off his come, tasting every last drop. "Of course you'd do that,” Brock said, his own body slowly coming to life again, hand falling asleep though trapped beneath it. He pulled it free and wiped his come off the bed although he had no doubt Steve would have licked it off all the same if he had offered. 

Steve dropped heavily onto the comforter next to him. Brock had expected to be shaken with it, but the mattress barely picked up his weight. Just like in those commercials with kids jumping on one side as the dad slept on the other. It was ridiculous, that's what it was. 

Brock turned his head though, to watch Steve, exhausted but satisfied, flushed cheeks and parted lips. Brock wanted to kiss him. Kiss his lips, the corner of his mouth, all along his jaw. 

"How do you even shave when you're flying all the time," he asked, tempted to touch Steve's face. Run his knuckles over the smooth skin. "Last I heard razors and planes don't mix well." 

"Electric," Steve told him, shoulders twitching. He closed his eyes, then smiled over something Brock couldn't guess. 

Of course, Brock thought. Captain Rogers didn't fuck like anyone else. Didn't sleep like anyone else. Didn't shower like anyone else. "Of course," he echoed again out loud. Of course, Captain Rogers didn't shave like anyone else either. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked, throwing him a look. "You trim your beard don't you? What's the difference." 

"I don't know," Brock said, annoyed with Steve's lifestyle again. For different reasons this time. "How about a hundred dollars," he guessed, had actually no idea what those things cost these days. 

"Yeah, Steve started. "Once. Same as spending five every couple of weeks." 

Brock frowned, irritated that Steve didn't see flat out that it wasn't the same. "That's not the same," he repeated out loud, concentration fading a little when a plane caught his eye, far out through the windows in the clear sky. So much closer though than from where Brock lived. Where he lived his life like everybody else. 

"It's the same," Steve still said. He had his head turned, was watching that same plane by now, and Brock couldn't help but smile. He wanted to stay. Despite everything he wanted to stay here. With Steve. Whether they were both stupid or not. Whether that made Brock the bigger idiot of the two. 

"To spend a hundred dollars at once you need to have a hundred dollars at once," Brock informed him out of principle. "That's different from managing to put five down every couple of weeks." He didn't want to fight anymore though. Argue over shit that didn't matter. Not now, with their wrung out naked bodies. Their happy brains and their shitty days behind them. He yawned, that goddamn mattress pulling him into a deeper state of blissed out calm. 

The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes, a tender sleep tucking him in, was Steve nodding his head, then turning again to keep watch of that same plane crossing the sky. Their plane. Or a different one. They were all Captain Rogers's anyway. America's greatest pilot. 

They were all Steve's. 

Like Brock. 


	7. Chapter 7

The exhaustion of those past days, of the morning, the flight, the anticipation of seeing Steve, being with him, and the subsequent relief of tension, his orgasm, all of it had suddenly taken hold of Brock's body, knocking him out into a deep and dreamless sleep. All of his limbs were twice as heavy, not as heavy as his eyelids though when he felt someone move next to him on the bed. 

Not someone. Steve. 

Brock wasn't used to falling asleep next to anyone anymore and it took him by surprise now how natural it had felt. He wasn't one to just drift off either, naked and without the tender safety of being blanketed by his own sheets. The ones that smelled of home. 

Here though, Steve was everywhere, with Brock in the bed, his come on Brock's skin, the scent of his aftershave in the air. Every last thing was different from Brock's place. From Brock's life. Foreign and strange. And yet none of it felt wrong. 

To Brock at least. 

There was restlessness in Steve's breaths, in the way he kept his body still, muscle tensing and twitching with the urge to leave. Brock didn't need to see it, to know it. To feel it. So close to him. Beneath his fingertips. 

"You're already bored of me," he said, taken aback by his own voice, worse than most mornings. Blinking into the light for a second, then decided it wasn't worth it. 

"You know, I don't do this, don't you?" Steve reminded him, his skin warm and tempting. He didn't sound like himself either, tired and lost instead. Maybe he had drifted off too, wrung out from work and sex. 

"Do what?" Brock questioned, drawn in by Steve's voice. His body, an anchor and guiding light at once. There was something about this moment, buried beneath all the physical exhaustion. Something calm and comforting. Sweet even. Something like peace. 

And Brock didn't think he'd mind having more moments like this. 

"Relationships," Steve explained. "Romantic relationships." He took his time to get the words right. But Brock already knew what he wanted to say. What he wanted to reject. Thinking he wasn't worth any of it. "Love," Steve finally admitted. Of course Steve Rogers didn't do love. Everyone knew. "I don't prioritize people," Steve said, phrasing it with an amount of conviction that made Brock frown. Everyone prioritized some people over others. "Or Relationships," Steve added, but it didn't matter. Everyone prioritized some relationships over others. That was just the human condition. Why people got married and had children. 

Things that Steve was afraid of. Commitment. Trust. Emotional connection. He was terrified to be vulnerable, scared he'd catch fire and burn out. Burn to ashes and into the ground. But that wasn't what love was about. Not even what heartbreak was about. 

And what Steve needed was someone to lead him safely to the flame. 

"Do you-," Brock wondered, making an effort to keep his eyes open. He knew he had to choose his next word carefully. "Do you hang out?" he asked finally, the offer unspoken but undeniably there. 

"Yeah," Steve told him with a smile that Brock wanted to see more often. "I do hang out." 

"Do you want to keep-," Brock tried, cut himself off. He didn't want to be the one asking Steve for sex. He didn't like being a guy whose first question, whose first worry, was about whether or not they were going to fuck again. They've just established some sort of friendship. A first step into something more stable. He shouldn't go out of his way to force Steve back into his old role. "Should I leave?" he asked then, quieter. Ashamed of himself. Maybe Steve wasn't even the bigger slut between them. Maybe Brock was just better at hiding it. 

Steve didn't say anything, completely caught off guard by the question, and Brock wanted to slap himself for being stupid enough to have asked it. Of course, Steve would take it as a rejection. 

"Or let me cook you dinner," Brock said quickly. They've just established they were _hanging out_. So that was what Brock was going to do. No more sex, just _hanging out_. As friends. "For getting me on that plane," he added, making his way to the other side of the bed. 

"Pretty sure my fridge is empty," Steve argued, understandably confused about Brock's intentions. 

"Figured you weren't the type to have things at home," Brock started, glancing back at Steve. "With how often you're away." The sight of Steve naked on the bed was borderline torture. Even after everything, --after work and a messy shower, after dragging his mouth through a pool of his own come, after sleep,-- he still looked perfect. Hair pushed all the way back, eyes alert as they tracked Brock's movement, the mesmerizing rise and fall of his chest, even breaths, calm and relaxed. Peaceful. Brock didn't dare to let his gaze wander further. "I guess I'll just shop for you." 

"You don't have to thank me," Steve reminded him, but Brock had already made up his mind. He was going to get his clothes, get dressed, buy food and cook dinner. End of discussion. 

"Come on," he said gently, giving Steve an encouraging smile. "You've gotta be hungry. I know I'm starving." 

"You can't just ask me that shit," Steve said out of nowhere, and Brock stopped dead, trying to figure out what he'd just ask. "From before," Steve clarified then. "If I'd fucked someone else. You can't just ask me that anymore. Not like that." 

Sometimes it was hard to keep track of Steve's thought process, follow him and filling the blanks he refused to share. Brock couldn't think of anything that had brought this on. Couldn't make sense of Steve's sudden insecurity. Sudden guilt maybe. 

"Then tell me you won't," Brock offered. After all, it was the only way. If Steve wanted to have Brock's trust, he needed to earn it. Simple as that. 

"Brock-," Steve started, wanted to interject, but this time Brock wouldn't have it. 

"Look," he went on instead, moving closer to Steve again. "You don't want to date, fine. It's not like I'm in love or whatever. Not like I have feelings for you." 

"But?" Steve asked, interrupting him again. Now he was just being difficult on purpose. Sabotaging the discussion by rushing it along. By forcing Brock to say things he wasn't ready yet to hear. 

"But," he started, tried to think of a way out, but then decided that Steve would just have to deal. "I just want you to myself for a while." 

He reached out, fingers brushing along Steve's thigh, but he knew it'd be too much for Steve if he'd tried to hold onto him. Hold him in any way. 

"Why?" Steve asked "Jealousy?" 

Brock pulled his hand back, head shaking with how unbelievably arrogant Steve really was. If he'd started being jealous of all the people Steve had been with, he'd be signing up for a second full-time job. He'd never sleep again. All he wanted was for Steve to give himself a break. Stop fucking around for a few months. 

"You can't do it, can you?" he asked, a little loud even for his own ears. Of course Steve couldn't. Couldn't even entertain the thought for a few seconds. "I told you, I don't have feelings for you," Brock reminded him again. "You know what?" he asked, pushing himself up once more. "Just forget what I said. I knew you couldn't do it." He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, higher than his own, quieter than his own, and suddenly he started to hate this place. 

"What happened with your family?" Steve voice caused Brock to stop moving, to stop moving away. Instead he turned, looked at Steve to try and figure him out. 

It was useless. 

And all that was left was to ask himself why he was still here. Why he didn't want to leave despite his anger and Steve's stubbornness. 

"My dad," he started to explain. Didn't know why. Words just falling from his mouth, from his heart. He didn't want to leave. "He had an accident," he said, elbows on his knees, hands between his legs. Nervous fingers. "He fell." 

"Sorry to hear that," Steve said. What else was there to say. But he didn't need to feel sorry for anyone. 

"He hates me," Brock admitted. Thinking if he'd ever said those words out loud before. Certainly not to any ex-boyfriend. People he'd loved. Now, he'd said them to Steve. "He's an army guy," Brock added, trying not to think about what it meant. That he was still here. Talking about his dad. Aching to stay. Talk about other things. 

"So he can take a fall?" Steve just said and the laugh was out Brock's mouth before he'd even registered it coming. 

"Unfortunately, he can, yeah," he said, still smiling and then let his body fall back on the bed and his eyes back on Steve. That stupid expensive bed and that guy he couldn't stand. "I used to be an army guy," he told him, arms stretched out wide, wondering if Steve already knew. "My whole family is. Always was," he went on, one hand finding Steve, fingers absently mapping out the skin of his thighs, those goddamn thighs, the other pillowing the back of his head. "My brothers and all of my uncles. My grandfather, a handful of cousins." 

"But you're here now," Steve said, unexpectedly caring. With genuine compassion. "What happened?" he wondered, causing Brock to turn his head and look at him again. 

"You don't know?" he asked and Steve shook his head. So he hadn't heard yet. Not from Wilson, not from Barnes. Steve didn't know. Had no idea about Brock's past. "Discharge," he admitted. "Not the honorable kind." He tried to figure out why he wasn't bothered sharing his story now. Why here, and why with Steve. Why he didn't care about his reputation here. "It's not a secret," he said. "Not at work, not with the forces. Not with my family either. People talk you know. They love to talk." Steve wasn't the only one they talked about. Maybe that was why Brock didn't mind telling the truth here. Telling Steve the truth and not feel ashamed of it. Hurt by it. Whatever he did, all of his mistakes, none of it compared to the baggage Steve came with. "My dad, he couldn't deal with it. Said he'd never felt more shame." Brock stopped there, letting his father's feelings wash over him before he tried to regain his sense of self. It hadn't been his fault. They've just twisted the truth to blame him. "Don't ask, don't tell," he went on hesitantly. Anger rising up from a wounded place. "Sounds so simple, doesn't it? They never told us how hard it really was." 

"I'm sorry," Steve offered again. It was nice hearing him say it. Hearing Captain Rogers apologize. 

For a second, Brock thought it was just his skin itching, a lasting shiver from the memories, before he realized, it was Steve, brushing through his hair and over the skin of his hand. Steve reaching out for him. For contact. The guy who couldn't stand to be held. 

"He didn't give a fuck about me being gay, you know," Brock said, tried not to scare Steve off with acknowledging his touch. He closed his eyes though, taking it all in. "Only that I wasn't wearing that uniform anymore, that I wasn't going to serve my country." 

Steve's hand was right there, next to his own above his head. The thought of laced fingers crossed his mind, safely intertwined. But it wasn't them. It wasn't Steve. Steve wasn't a lover, he wasn't a boyfriend. Brock just needed to remind himself every once in a while. 

"Was that the job you got fired from?" Steve asked, tearing Brock from his thoughts. His idiotically naive thoughts. "The one you mentioned?" Steve clarified. "With the rumors." 

If only, Brock thought. If only it had been the only one. "I stayed in New York for a while," Brock told him. "After everything. Worked all kinds of jobs. Transport, construction, at a goddamn gym," he said, would have laughed at the memory if it hadn't been for Steve's fingers against his skin. Growing bolder with their exploration. If only Steve could be more like it. Allow himself more than this. Allow himself all of it. Maybe Brock would too. "Eventually, I got hired by a private security company. Two weeks later, though, I was let go. For withholding the circumstances of my discharge on my application." 

He hadn't even lied. They hadn't asked for the information and he hadn't thought it mattered to anyone. He was basically paid to stand around for hours. Do nothing most shifts. Just look dangerous. But a gay security guard obviously didn't look dangerous enough. Was a liability. Could be accused of copping a feel while removing angry customers. Impossibly to train with his colleagues. 

"You're here now," Steve reminded him, memories retreating as he spoke. Yes, Brock was here now. "You can stay if you want to," Steve offered, though Brock needed a second to catch on. "It'd be nice if you'd stayed." 

"Steve," Brock said, turned his head so he could face him. He needed to see him. "I know you don't care what people say about you." That much was obvious to Brock by now, though he didn't think it was right. "And I know I can't tell you what to do. What not to do," he admitted. Painfully. Wished it wasn't so. Wished he could. "I just-," he started again, reached for Steve's hand now in return. Prayed he wouldn't pull away. Prayed they could find a way to just be. Maybe not together, but maybe not apart either. "If we keep doing this, it can only be us," he told Steve, knew he couldn't stand it otherwise. "Privately." 

"Look," Steve started, ready to argue once more. "We're not really good at this, are we? I'm not good at this," he corrected himself. "I don't think I'm the right person for this. For whatever your looking for." 

Brock was tired of fighting Steve. Tired of fighting himself. Tired of Steve fighting himself. He wanted to stay. "No, you're probably not," he said then. Knew that Steve was right. "And neither am I, the right person for whatever you're looking for. The person you hoped I'd be." By now they were both just looking at each other, shaking their heads at the impasse, the realizations, the way their hands were still touching. "You still want to anyway? Hang out?" Brock asked then. He wanted to stay. Here with Steve. With everything infuriating just beneath a thick layer of calm. A thick layer of intimacy. Away from the world. He tugged Steve's hand over his head and against his mouth, tasting the skin that was still so unfamiliar to him. Steve had soft hands, different from his own, different from all military guys. "Have sex?" he offered, allowed it finally. Admitting what he wanted himself. To himself. To Steve. "Knowing we suck at it?" he added, grinned, eyes searching for Steve's. 

Brock had expected him to fight, argue or shut down and run off again. Instead, Steve held his gaze and nodded. He wanted what Brock wanted. 

"No hook-ups on the side," he clarified again. "No one night stands. Men, women, I don't care. No one else," Brock told him, thinking that with Steve, he had to make himself extra clear on it. "And if you fuck up, you let me know right away. No lies." 

They've had the exact conversation not too long ago, and it was ridiculous how different the outcome was now. With Steve nodding for a second time, promising what he could have assured Brock before, agreeing to terms he should have agreed to before. Brock didn't know what had changed. But something had. Something in both of them. 

"No lies," Steve repeated, his tone serious. "You can't have feelings for me. Romantic feelings," he told Brock once more. "And if you fuck up, you let me know right away." 

Brock drew in a long breath, glancing around before his eyes settled back on Steve. Somehow now it seemed very fitting they were still naked, both of them bare to each other while no one else knew. No one else could see. 

He couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop smiling at Steve as he made his way towards him, across the sheets and past their differences. "Don't worry," he told Steve. "Love is off the table." 

When he kissed Steve this time, he knew exactly how, exactly what Steve liked, though he couldn't recall ever consciously memorizing it. 

"Let me make you dinner," Brock tried again, more confident of Steve's answer now. He wasn't mistaken when Steve nodded for a third time, finally allowing himself to be looked after. 

* * *

He had no idea what Steve liked, what his eating habits were or if he stuck to some sort of diet. And by the time he'd left, he was too proud to ask. And mildly aroused. Being close to Steve always messed with his head. His emotions. 

He still felt his touch on his skin, under his shirt and his jacket, still breathed him in, through Chicago's streets and the stale air of the grocery store. Every second thought wrapped up in Steve, at home, in his underwear. Waiting for Brock to return. 

Eventually, he decided to play it safe with some homemade pizza and different toppings. This wasn't a date after all. And everyone liked pizza. His cart was filled with fresh tomatoes and mushrooms, onions, about four different kinds of cheese and some corn. 

He liked strolling the aisles, eyes glazing over the stacked shelves full of perfectly processed products and their glossy packaging. 

Even though he couldn't always afford to buy what his gaze lingered on, childish curiosity and longing alike, the endless rows of comfort items still made some lone part of him feel cared for. And every once in a while he'd let that part indulge in overpriced ice cream or frozen spring rolls. 

He had the distinct feeling that Steve was different in that particular regard, that he didn't know about those rare pleasures, about buyer's guilt and the small satisfaction of generosity. 

Although it was still weeks away, Halloween decorations were already piled up along the shelves and Brock grinned at the endless supply of plastic pumpkins and artificial spider webs. He thought about the toy plane back in New York, thought about how the sky had forever changed. Wondered if he would ever be able to look at it again, and not be thinking of Captain America. 

It wasn't goddamn fair, one man ruining aircrafts and clouds, contrails and sunsets. It wasn't fair for Steve to be who he was. And for Brock to get all tangled up in him. 

He was out the store just a short while later, carrying groceries that would probably last Steve for a week. It had gotten so much colder while he was inside, icy winds and mist over the streets. He stopped on his way, tried to balance all his bags in just one hand for a second to yank the zipper of his jacket all the way up when he noticed a pair of feet stopping right in front of him. 

"Brock," Sharon said and Brock's chin shot up instantly. She looked surprised to see him, but not unhappy. "How are you?" she asked, her eyes falling onto the heavy plastic bags in his hands, no doubt that he was on his way home. Someone's home. Someone who lived right around the corner of her building. She glanced back up at him, eyes bright and with a genuine smile of hers. 

"Um, uh," Brock stammered, trying to come up with an excuse. "Sharon," he said, looking back at the store helplessly. Two minutes later, he scolded himself, if only he had waited two minutes longer. Fuck. 

"Do you need help with that?" she asked nodding down to the bags. 

"No," Brock said immediately, bringing one of them back into his free hand. "No, thank you. It's fine. I'm fine. How are you?" 

He was sweating, he could tell, could feel the damp corners of his forehead despite the freezing weather. 

"Good," she just said. "Don't want to keep you," she added, smiling still. Knowingly. Double fuck. "See you at work?" 

She'd already taken a step to the side when Brock's arm surged out, groceries dangling on dangerously thin plastic. "It's-," he started, wanted to stop her from just leaving. Leaving and talking about it. With Jack. Jack or anyone else really. "We're-," he tried again, relieved when she waited him out. It's not what it looks like, it itched him to say. But it was exactly what it looked like. "No one can know," he said finally, realizing that he sounded overdramatic when Sharon frowned a little helplessly. "It's new, okay?" Brock said, could feel the sweat on his back now. "We haven't even figured it out yet." He shrugged, desperately, hoping she would take pity on him. 

Instead of replying, Sharon brought two fingers to her lips, turned and invisible key and smiled at him again. Then she stepped up, nudged his wrist out of the way and slid the symbolic little piece of nothingness into Brock's jacket. "I'm happy if you're happy," she said, lingering there in his space. 

He returned her smile, trying to think of anything casual to say. Anything that'll lighten the mood or change the topic. But he was too caught up wondering if that was what he'd felt like. Back in Steve's bed. Slow and heavy and sweet. Peaceful. Happy. Maybe. Maybe a different kind of happy. Not the one that made you want to sing and dance. Made you want to tell the world or get down on one knee. 

Maybe there was some kind of happiness reserved for the complicated, messy things. For unreliable narrators and shitty agreements. Of not falling in love and not fucking around. Maybe it wasn't where happiness thrived or planted roots. Just where it killed time with those who were hurting to get just one moment right. 

The next thing he knew, was that Sharon was gone, heading further down the street when he frantically turned to spot her. One day he'd learn how to say '_T__hank you_'. 

When he got back, Steve was still shirtless, boxers low on his hips and definitely a size too small. It was strange, returning to this place that felt so out of this world. Out of his world. And coming home to it, almost. Home to Steve who had unpacked his back in the meantime. Had turned on the TV and the dimmed lights by the corner. Who smiled at Brock and smelled faintly of sex still. Tasted of sex still, when Brock kissed him, careful not to give the wrong impression. 

Kissed him while he snuck a hand down Steve's stomach, cold fingers eager to wrap around the heat of his cock. Somehow now, he wanted nothing more than jerking Steve off, leave everything else be. Not fuck him, not with his fingers, not with his dick. Somehow now, here, after everything, he wanted to believe that it was possible. For both of them to be happy one day. 

Steve was half-hard when Brock pulled his hand off him, kissed him again to apologize. "Pizza first," he told him, trying to forget about his thoughts about all those futures they wouldn't have. He didn't want to end up with Steve. He wanted to end up with someone more like himself. A decent guy. That he could tell his friends about. 

He was glad he'd bought some beers too, needed the distraction now. Steve offered to help him carry the groceries into the kitchen but those couple of feet left didn't make a difference now. 

Steve's kitchen wasn't much bigger than Brock's, it just used its space better. More efficiently. Like everything in Steve's life, it was perfectly designed. Perfectly designed down to the friendly exterior and the shiny frames. Yet, like Steve, it lacked an entire heart. And though it didn't show in the first place, it eventually made itself known. 

They weren't dating though, so it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they weren't going anywhere. 

"Brock?" Steve asked, suddenly standing by his side. 

"Yeah?" Brock asked, trying to make sense of the concern written over Steve's face. "What's up?" 

"You alright?" Steve wondered, honest and caring. Almost loving. Almost. 

"Just thinking," Brock admitted. They would get better at this. At _hanging out_. And spending time together. Casually. Being friends. At filling the space between their fucks. "What about you?" he asked. "You feeling alright?" 

"I've never had someone else cooking for me," Steve confessed, though it was hardly a surprise. "Not here anyway." 

"Having second thoughts?" Brock asked, part of him preparing to be kicked out after all. 

"You're not going to ask for a drawer, are you?" Steve said, tone lighter and with his usual charming expression. The one Brock remembered from Sam's birthday. The one that had nagged at his defences until they'd crumbled into dust. 

"So, you think I have enough clothes to split them over two places?" he asked, shook his head but laughed. "I'm flattered." Their goddamn mess was starting to become addictive. 

Trying to describe Steve's body, without rambling, without lining up all kinds of cheesy words, --warm, pliant or sweet, seductive and enticing--, Brock was rendered speechless every time he'd had him splayed out before him. 

Every time he realized the scope of this person, the places he'd been, all around the world. Hungry lungs filled with reckless desire, his hands handling aircrafts, routinely holding lives. Touching whoever Steve wanted to touch. Hands that knew no limits. 

They'd ended up where they always did. In the bedroom. Naked and hard. Condom wrapper on the floor and the bottle of lube by Brock's knee. 

This time though, it was different. This time Steve wasn't the world's, with Brock being just one of countless others. This time Steve wasn't passing through and Brock wasn't giving into urges he'd despise himself for. 

This time Steve was Brock's. 

And there was no rush to have all of him at once. No rush to put his own touch over all of the other's. No need to plaster himself all over Steve's body, inside and out. No need to look at Steve and see where he'd been. Who he'd been with. 

Instead, he fucked Steve to fit his life. Friendly. Efficiently. And perfectly designed. Heartless. Just the way he wanted it. 

No feelings involved. 

Just Brock closing his eyes, losing himself in the rhythm of his thrusts, the rhythm of his breaths, the rhythm of his heart. And it was all he felt. Barely anything at all. The heat of Steve's body unable to ignite him. A faint orgasm buried in his stomach, sleepwalking to the surface. 

"Talk-," Steve started then, but he needed a second try while Brock kept fucking him through every word. "Talk to me," he finally got out. Maybe the mechanical technicalities of sex weren't everything that Steve Rogers needed after all. "Tell me why you wanted this," he added, almost shaking as he begged Brock with a look over his shoulder. "Why you wanted this to yourself." 

What was he supposed to say? What was that thought between '_I have feelings for you_' and '_I think__ the way you fuck around is grotesquely disturbing_'? Between '_You disgust me_' and _'I worry about you_'? Between '_I need you_' and '_I can't__ stand the thought of you needing something else_'. Someone else. 

"I just," Brock tried, faltered, forced his body still, his chest to let in those goddamn breaths. "I just want to pretend for a while," he said, running his hand all the way up to Steve's neck, brushing a loose strand of hair out the corner of his eye before he met his gaze. "That other people don't exist," he admitted. "That they can't ruin things. With all that talk and the gossip. The jokes and the competitions." He let his hand move all over Steve's shoulders, replacing kisses he was too cowardly to place with fleeting touches. There was no rush, he reminded himself. No rush to have all of him. If anyone even could. "I know I'll fuck up. And you might. But at least it'll be us ruining this." 

There was no doubt they'll ruin it. 

But Brock was already in too deep. 

That thought between '_I love you_' and '_I hate everything that you are_'? 

_Get the fuck out of my head_. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry (here too) that this took a little longer than usual. Thank you for reading <3 .

The first week went by in little more than a blink, carefree thoughts and memories carrying Brock over hours, days and nights. Steve was still around, his skin beneath Brock's palms, no matter how many people he touched, how many bags he moved, how many times he showered. Touched himself. 

Like he hadn't in years. 

Frantic and angry. Urgently. His body suddenly more physical than ever, violently craving contact. 

Those first couple of days, he noticed the knots that had been untied, cut loose, noticed what had been unleashed. Something he couldn't explain, couldn't make sense of. Didn't know if he liked it. 

The way he didn't just get off anymore, routinely and mechanical. To release some tension, fall asleep or because he was bored. Because it had been too long. Faintly too long. Rationally. Now every other day was too long, every other hour something stirred, some desire, some fantasy he was scared to chase. 

He wasn't quiet anymore, wasn't careful or controlled. On day five, he caught himself growling, then whimpering in the shower when he came, one person on his mind only. He watched porn only to turn it off midway. It didn't matter how many blond guys he watched getting fucked by some angry looking muscle jerk. It wasn't good enough anymore. It wasn't him and it wasn't Steve. 

He felt simultaneously broken and set free. Knew crystal clear what he wanted. Who he wanted and what he wanted to do to him. And Steve had declared himself willing to be just that. For him. Just for him and no one else. And yet, Brock felt sick letting his thoughts dwell on it. Felt sick because his thoughts never stopped there. They were with Steve sleeping next to him, exhausted and taken care of. They were with tongue kisses as they fucked and hand holding in the cab. They were with Steve's laughter, with his voice and the look on his face at the bar. 

_'You want to take this talk somewhere private?_' 

Brock loved things private. Locked away and hidden from plain sight. Safe. 

The second week started a little less rushed, still fast, too fast, but was slowed down every new day by those thoughts of Steve. 

Private should be safe, but Brock found himself craving to just shout it all out. The fact that he had fucked Steve Rogers despite his insistent attempts to deny it. Shout out the fact that he hadn't seen him in two weeks. Two weeks that Brock spent on night shifts and with his head between worlds. Yell about it to whoever was willing to listen. The fact that he wanted to see Steve. That he wanted to kiss him maybe more than he wanted to fuck him. Kiss the back of his hand, the dip in his temple, and the spot between shoulder and arm, just above the hem of his t-shirt, beneath the fabric, the soft skin over hard muscles. 

He was going insane. Inexplicably insane. Over feelings he didn't have. He didn't. Feelings he'll never have. Not for Steve. 

It was day nine and he wanted to scream it through the crowded corridors of O'Hare. 

He wasn't in love with Steve Rogers. 

He wasn't, he wasn't. 

Steve Rogers didn't do love and Brock Rumlow didn't love assholes like him. 

And yet, he lay awake hours into each night. A hand on the waistband of his boxers. Deliberating. Negotiating. Infuriating. 

He should be asleep. Should finish the day, not finish it thinking about him. Thinking about Steve emerging from behind that corner, walking down the corridor in his uniform. The simple relief of seeing him. What was that about? 

Seeing someone and pausing for a moment. 

Seeing someone and forgetting for a moment. Forgetting about all those day-to-day things. Forgetting about worldly things too. 

Seeing someone and remembering. The first words spoken and that first smile over meaningless phrases. Then later the first touch over layers of clothes. Stale beer in front of them. Fingers on leather pants. And hours later fingers on just skin. Still not enough. 

Not enough. 

And the images blurred. 

A finger on Steve's tongue. A couple more in his ass. Past skin, all the way closer to his core. Brock's tongue slipping in so easily. Wet and warm and helplessly conditioned to give way. Steve losing his mind over it. A finger on Brock's tongue. A couple more on other places. Opening willingly. 

And suddenly, Brock was sat upright in bed, the thought of sleep wiped straight off his mind completely, Crossbones snarling at the disturbance. 

Jesus Fucking Christ. 

He was watching too much porn. 

He was getting ideas that weren't his own. 

Ideas he was going to ignore. Simple as that. 

But it was too late and he knew. He knew denial wouldn't do, the thought had already irreversibly crossed his mind. Had left its trace. Indisputable. Uneraseable. 

The image had flickered, but it wasn't the image that scared him. It was the way he had felt at the thought. 

Greedy. 

Bold. 

Loved. 

He wanted more from Steve than his hands on his skin. He wanted his touch in more intimate places. In the gray areas. 

He wanted it inside his body. 

Past his lips, past his rim. All the way inside. 

And not just his touch. 

His everything. 

Fucking Rogers and how he messed with Brock's head. How he had seeped through the cracks, changing everything from the inside out. 

Brock wanted Rogers to fuck him. 

Not even to get off. To be together. All the way together. Take him in. Adjusting on every last intimate level. 

He had it bad. There was no denying it anymore. He had it bad for Captain America. 

There was no denying that he wanted to see Steve right away. The next day, the weekend, any chance he got. All the time. But dating a pilot wasn't easy. In fact, it appeared a master's degree in time management wouldn't hurt to make it work. 

Not dating. 

Steve didn't date. 

Hanging out and having sex. If only Brock's brain didn't have trouble getting used to those words. 

Steve was someone who wanted instead of loved. Who wanted easy. Oblivious to how his easy was the thing making it entirely complicated to everyone else. Maybe Brock wasn't a huge fan of saying things out loud either, of public declarations, but that didn't mean labels were a bad thing. They prevented confusion. And confusion was all that Brock felt that night. He was sick of it. 

Work had become surreal for the most part. Brock was vaguely aware about how pilots' schedules worked, was vaguely aware that Steve had a couple of days off whenever he went overseas, but when it came down to the details, he had no fucking clue about the logistics of it all. He had no idea if he should expect Steve showing up at the security check anytime soon. No clue about when he should expect him. And so there was an element of sheer panic to all his work days, all those passing minutes he spent on the clock, to every single moment he spotted a flight crew walking up. Panic and fear, anticipation, a stupid need even during all of his shifts. 

Somehow now, since they've talked about it, since they've decided they were _something,_ since spelling it out in Steve's bedroom, it seemed a hundred percent more likely for them to run into each other at work. Every day, Brock was sweating, terrified of and excited all the same for the moment it would happen. 

And yet in those two weeks it didn't. 

Nothing happened. 

It didn't happen during the mornings, not after lunch or the hour before sundown. Nothing. And thus, the pictures in Brock's memory were all he had. And they seemed to replicate, grow and change. Piling up like clutter. Some of them real, some of them wishful thinking. Some of them nothing but fantasies. For a while there, he could have sworn that they used to see each other all the time. Running into each other outside of O'Hare, by the bus stops or the food halls. During security checks and between gates. 

They hadn't. The truth was they'd barely seen each other before. Once a month, maybe. Twice if Brock was unlucky or worked an extra shift. Everyone simply knew who Captain Rogers was. Everyone liked to talk about him. In awe or for a cheap laugh. Some in bitter envy, others in humorous disbelief. Steve's name was on everyone's tongue, in everyone's ear. And back then, Brock had dreaded catching it. Had dreaded the sight of him. 

Now he was the only one Brock wanted to see. 

The one Brock kept hoping for when backs in blue jackets turned, but it was never Steve's face that revealed itself. Always just another pilot. Another flight attendant. Another traveller picking an unfortunate color. 

By day eleven, navy blue had become Brock's least favorite color. 

Slowly, with every day that passed, work turned from vaguely surreal to sheer torture. And by day thirteen, Brock was so tired of being disappointed, of hoping to see Steve and then finding himself emotionally exhausted when it didn't happen, that the only thing he allowed himself to look forward were lunch breaks. 

Lunch breaks that he still spent with Jack mostly, with Jack and Sharon every other day. Sharon who kept her promise. Not once mentioned Steve, not once mentioned seeing Brock anywhere else except O'Hare on anything other than his uniform. 

"I stand by what I've said," Jack said, staring Brock down unimpressed. "You need to get out more." 

"We should go out," Sharon said immediately, sat up a little straighter. The idea pleased her visibly. "I know a great club." 

"I don't go to clubs," Brock reminded both of them, he was way too fucking old for them. 

"I think that's a yes," Jack said to Sharon and scooted closer to conspire further. "How about Friday?" 

"No," Brock said immediately, but Sharon had already drowned out his answer with and excited "Yes!". 

He was screwed. He was double screwed. He didn't want to go to a goddamn club and he had made and effort to free his Friday for Steve. The only thing he had been lacking was the courage to just fucking text and ask. 

"Friday it is," Sharon just said. Both her and Jack were committed to ruin his weekend. 

* * *

At first, Brock wanted to text Steve. Let him know that he was going out. That he was going to meet people. Other people. Maybe flirt. He wanted to threaten Steve, punish him. They were supposed to have something going on. But instead, neither of them seemed to have the balls to reach out. Get things moving again. 

Now, it almost seemed impossible. Impossible, if he didn't want all those feelings spilling out. 

Those he swore wouldn't become an issue. 

Love was off the table. 

Off. The goddamn. Table. 

The music was too loud, the light too dim, blinding flashes hitting the dancefloor every couple of seconds, too fast to make out more than blurring shapes. 

Sharon's hand was in his own, warm and dry, confident. Friendly. Trustworthy, as she led him towards the bar. With the way she moved through the crowd, Brock could tell that she was familiar with this place. That she knew where they were heading. So unlike him, who turned his head every other step, trying to understand the layout, get a sense of the crowd, eyes checking out strangers he didn't care about. He wouldn't see Steve looking back at him here. 

Jack pushed against him from behind, his hand grabbing a handful of Brock's collar whenever a group of drunk people threatened to separate them. When the moving crowd threatened to swallow them, a sea of bodies, hyped up and hopeful to escape their lives for a night. Find something they've been missing maybe. Find someone to take their mind off things. To rescue them. 

It felt like ages ago since Brock had been one of them. Since he'd been looking for someone in places like these. Since he'd been looking at all. 

He closed his eyes, let himself be moved in between these two friends, the only ones he got. Pathetic. The third one all across the city unaware of the things he did to Brock. Even worse than pathetic. 

When he tipped the shot glass back for the first time the liquor tasted heavy and bitter, and Sharon kissed his cheek afterwards. By the third, it washed down sweetly beneath the sour lime and he grinned at Jack. Noticing for the first time where the scar of his jaw met his bottom lip, the slightly disturbed curve when he smiled back at him. Two rounds later, he barely registered the taste anymore. 

Time went by horribly slow at first. He didn't know what to say, could barely hear his own voice over the music. He couldn't help the way he tensed up whenever Jack bend down ever so slightly so Sharon could put her lips closer to his ear, their conversation impossible to even guess. She wouldn't though, he reminded himself. She wouldn't pass on Brock's secret. 

At first, he felt stiff and clumsy on the dancefloor, embarrassed whenever he caught someone looking at him. Checking him out. None of them were Steve. None of them came close. None of them mattered. 

With the first hour, the awkwardness passed and laughter and jokes elevated Brock into a different state of mind. Time was slipping by, a blackout of youthful carelessness. The heat of the club, the thick air, cool just below the vent of the air-conditioning. Jack's face and Sharon's hair, their bodies bracketing Brock, hips rolling and hands everywhere. 

They weren't Steve's touches, but Brock closed his eyes then, pretending they were. Against his back or brushing past his chest. Aimless yet precise. And he caught himself reaching out in return, the brush of skin against skin, some silky fabric, the belt loop of rough jeans. 

The inside of a pocket. 

What the fuck was happening? 

A second later, Brock's eyes were wide open and he was stumbling towards the restroom, sweating and with a racing heart. He knew it was now or never. It was Steve now or he'd be losing the rest of his sanity. 

He squeezed into the stall, hot sweat suddenly cold on the back of his neck. With ringing ears and eager, but uncoordinated fingers, he fished his phone out of the pocket of his pants, squinting to unlock it. 

To Steve 2:13AM  
u up in the air? 

There was no room anywhere here for doubts or regrets. He was too drunk anyway. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this drunk. Wasted, really. Shitfaced. 

The air was gross and did very little to relieve the heat, the stress, to sober him up. He didn't dare to lean against the walls, didn't dare to sit down on the broken lid. Instead he stood, swaying with his subdued thought, the body that felt numb and oversensitive at once. 

He stared at his phone, patiently waiting for a reaction. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. How long until he'll slide it back along his thigh, next to his dick, hungry for Steve. A minute. Maybe two. Three max, then he'll be walking out. After all, he didn't want to be that guy. That guy blocking the stall. That guy suspected of throwing up or having fallen asleep. 

He didn't have to wait that long. 

From Steve 2:14AM  
Home actually. In bed. 

Steve was home. He was home and he was in his bed. Where Brock had already been. Where he wanted to be again. Where he wanted to be right now. Sleep it off or get it on. Where he wanted to be all the time. 

To Steve 2:14AM   
cant sleep? 

To Steve 2:14AM   
its a nice bed. 

To Steve 2:14AM   
been thinking about it. 

If he'd been sober, he'd wasted more than a fleeting thought on all the reasons why Steve would have been awake in the middle of the night. Work maybe. A delayed flight. An early commitment. Loud neighbors. The full moon. 

Another man. Another person. More than one. Things weren't ever simple with Steve. 

But he wasn't sober. 

So Steve being awake was fate. Simple as that. 

To Steve 2:15AM  
you never called. texted. been waiting to see you. 

It took a lot of effort now, for Brock to focus on the letters, keep himself steady and his eyes on the screen. People who needed sex would have called. People with Rogers's reputation would have called. 

Steve hadn't. 

Steve goddamn Rogers hadn't. 

With his hand stuck mid-air, halfway reaching for the shabby knob of the door, Brock frowned. Not quite sure what had happened. What was wrong. What had thrown him off. But something didn't make sense. None of it made sense. The world didn't make sense if Steve didn't make sense. 

And Steve hadn't. 

From Steve 2:16AM   
Just FYI, it's 2 in the morning. 

"So?" Brock meant to think, but the word slipped out his lips. They were both awake after all. They were both awake and could do with some sex. Although, Brock wasn't sure he would still be able to get it up. Get it up, yes, but keep it up was a different story. Keep it up and finish seemed impossible by now. 

He shouldn't have texted Steve. All of a sudden, he couldn't remember what he had wanted from him in the first place. 

To Steve 2:16AM   
nevermind. 

Three minutes. Fuck. It took every last bit of self-discipline to turn the lock and push through the door into the poorly lit bathroom. 

"You okay?" a guy by the door asked and it took Brock a couple of seconds to recognize him as Jack. 

Right. 

It was because of Jack that Brock had run off to text Steve. Jack and Sharon. Jack with sweaty hair and taller than him. Taller than Steve too, but with a similar frame. Maybe more proportionate even. Masculine. Protective. Reliable. Built of all the things Brock liked. 

"Fine," Brock just said, trying to sound casual still. Proceeded to wash his hands although he hadn't even touched his dick. "You don't have to stalk me." He could hear the slurring of his intoxicated tongue in his own words, though he willed himself to ignore it. He didn't sound casual. 

There was no way he could ever tell Jack the truth about what was going on. What was going on with Steve and what was going on inside his head. How Steve had messed with everything he ever believed to know. To know about himself. How he was horny all the time now. Thinking about sex with Steve. How he was horny now, despite the alcohol, despite Steve's rejection. He needed Jack to stay away. At a safe distance. A safe distance from his thing with Steve. From what it did to Brock. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jack nodding, but even his drunken brain recognized that he hadn't fooled him. 

"I haven't been myself lately," Brock admitted, lucky enough to grab the last batch of paper towels. 

"Yeah," Jack said, his expression different from the one Brock was used to at work. Kinder. Softer. "I noticed," he added, half a smile in the corner of his mouth. He had his hand in his pocket. His broad hands, the ones that had ruined a man's face to save Brock some dignity. That same hand in the same pocket Brock had dipped his fingers into. You don't stick your fingers in your friend's pockets. Unless you want to feel the warmth of the skin underneath. The heat of his thigh. So close to where his dick was tucked away. Fuck. 

"I-," Brock started, frowning. He couldn't even put together now what had happened out there on the dancefloor. "I think I might have gotten carried away," he admitted finally, avoiding Jack's eyes though as he spoke. 

"It's not a big deal," Jack told him, sounded genuine enough. Didn't move from where he stood, doorway just behind him, even when Brock was right in front of him. They had to get out of here. Get back to Sharon. Have a couple more drinks. Dance. Do whatever. Forget. 

But Jack didn't budge. 

"Come on," Brock urged him, tried a dumb smile to hide his irritation. "Let's get back." 

"You know," Jack started instead, took a step towards Brock. He seemed twice as tall as usual. "We've been friends for a long time, no?" 

Brock nodded, something twitching on his face. Meanwhile, Jack looked simply pained, searching for words. For words or thoughts. Or the balls to spell them out. 

"And you know that I'm-," Jack went on, wrestling with himself, shoulders dropping as he pulled his hand free to run it through his hair. "I'm always here to help you out." 

Brock nodded again, wondering what the hell was happening. 

"With anything," Jack stressed, the words a little too heavy for them to make sense right away. Not to Brock and his wasted state. 

"I know," Brock said, reached out to pat Jack's elbow a little awkwardly. "Aren't I lucky?" he reassured him, then tried to eye up the door behind him. They'd been inside that godforsaken restroom for too long. "I bet Sharon's waiting," he added quickly, hoping that Jack would finally move out of the way. 

It took him a couple of seconds, but the he nodded again and turned to lead the way. Brock stumbled after him, fingers going for his own pocket, curling around his phone. To ground himself. For comfort. Holding onto Steve. 

Jesus Christ, he was one sappy loser. 

The music drowned out much of his thoughts, his feet moving on their own account, following Jack's steps as Brock decided to forget about the texts he'd sent, about his stupid feelings for one stupid pilot. 

He focused on looking out for Sharon instead, worrying that she had tried to find them in return. Sometimes, he was a shitty friend. 

But Sharon was waiting for them at the bar, a fresh round of drinks in front of her, arms protectively circling the glasses as she dodged the random advances of every other guy or so. She smiled at them, eyes lingering with Brock that one second longer. A meaningful look that Brock was too drunk to decipher. A question maybe. An apology. Or just her way of checking up on him. 

"Sorry 'bout that," he told her, leaning in closer than necessary by accident, skin against the bridge of his nose, her hair in his mouth. She didn't pull away. 

She had no reason too. They were friends and he was gay and she knew he was buying groceries and taking them to Rogers's place. He hadn't meant for it to happen. Things just happened when people were drunk. 

Kisses that weren't kisses. And hands in sensitive places, fingers past safe spots. Accidents. 

Jack was right there, holding out the drink until Brock took it from him. So what if he stood a little too close too, it wasn't a big deal. Jack had said so himself. They were friends. The three of them were friends. 

"I still can't believe you guys beat up that dick from work," Brock blurted, the proximity suddenly suffocating. "You could have gotten fired for that." 

Out of reflex, Sharon turned her hand to check for traces on its back. But they were all gone by now. They were gone from both their hands. Brock had noticed right away when the bruises had started to fade, nothing more than faint shadows for those last two days. Before they were gone for good. 

"Not with Pierce's protection," Jack said with a wink, shrugged all worries off as usual and Brock let his own shoulder bump against Jack's chest. Let himself be pulled in further as Jack slung an arm around him. Wrapped the other around Sharon. 

It was nice. Being taken care of. Hugged. And Brock closed his eyes, the world disappearing from his senses. It was just them, everything else forgotten. Everything else except his phone in his pocket. Except the one he was thinking of non-stop. At home in his bed. The one he was in love with. 

Two weeks in and he'd already fucked it up. 

Two weeks in and he was drowning in feelings for Steve. 

Two weeks in without seeing him once. 

He felt sick all over, body moving closer into Jack's body on its own. Sharon's face so close once more, a little bit of sweat over her eyebrows, dark lashes over brown eyes. A couple of lost specks of glitter on the cheek that wasn't pressed against Jack's shirt. Glossy wet lips in pale pink. The ones that were suddenly pressing against his own, eyes shut tight on reflex. Jack's hand skipping from between his shoulder blades down to the small of his back. Down to where his belt was guarding the waistband of his jeans. Down onto his ass where it stayed put. 

And Brock leaning into it without a second thought. 

And then Sharon's lips were gone, head thrown back, laughing. A hand on his shoulder, then on his neck and eventually draped over his jaw. 

She smiled, leaned in again, but put his lips to his ear instead. "Sorry about that," she said, thumb stroking over his short beard. He had been too distracted to shave. Then she kissed his cheek, moved off to butt her forehead against Jack's shoulder in embarrassment. Jack who grinned at Sharon as he watched her. Happy. Relaxed. But his hand remained stubbornly on the curve of Brock's ass. 

They've had one too many. 

They needed to get home. 

Brock needed to move. Step aside. Just one goddamn step. Just put his foot out and let his hips follow. He didn't. 

* * *

When he woke up, it was to a pounding headache, sore muscles all over his body and planes in the sky by the window. And in sheets just a shade from white, tender to his tired eyes and soft against his skin. 

_Steve_, he thought for a moment, felt himself sinking into that comfort. Eyes closing and with his breath against the pillows. The sound of his own heartbeat between mattress and ribcage. 

The sound of a voice in the other room. More than one. 

None of them Steve. 

This wasn't Steve's place and Brock jerked upright at the realization, pain rippling through his body, his stomach tightening in revenge. 

This was a place right around the corner. 

Fuck. 

He was shirtless, but he was wearing his boxers and had one sock still on. His eyes burned as he looked around the room, clocking every single thing that was different from Steve's place. The only place he had wanted to wake up in. 

It was all different. 

It was all wrong. 

He found his jeans by the foot of the bed, slipped them on and unlocked his phone, blinking with the empty battery warning. 

There was a single text message, unread still from last night. 

From Steve 2:18AM  
reschedule? for 2 in the afternoon? 

Fuck. 

He wasn't entirely sober yet, hungover and stressed. Maybe he should have taken a minute. But he didn't have a minute and he didn't care. His phone was about to die and he needed to get away from here. Out of Sharon's bed. And away from Jack. 

With shaky fingers he typed a reply, hurried and nervous alike. 

To Steve 10:34AM   
coming over in 5. sorry. please don't say no. 

Fuck. How was it after ten already? 

To Steve 10:35AM  
please. 

His shirt smelled of alcohol and sweat but he put it on nonetheless. He didn't have too many options. The other sock was still in his shoe and he was glad he had been rude enough to walk them straight to the bed before taking them off. 

When he emerged from the bedroom he felt worse than he looked, not sure how to act, not sure what to say. 

Sharon's hair was wet, from a shower probably, and Jack was barefoot in his jeans, his shirt missing. 

"Did we-?" he mumbled, stared at them, all dressed and with his phone in his hand. He would have remembered. He would know. 

But all he remembered were the texts in the bathroom and Jack's black shirt. If Brock had caught it lying on the bedroom floor he probably would have put it on instead of his own. He was ninety percent sure it smelled better. He remembered Jack's hand on him and Sharon's kiss. 

He remembered the wasted jerk at the bar shoving against them, struggling to stay upright. All three of them breaking apart to get out of the way. The way he had shuddered in relief over the separation. 

"I mean, we didn't-, did we?" he tried again, but then noticed how his screen lit up, his mind distracted immediately. 

He only managed a glimpse at the preview in the notification before the screen went dark, the battery drained. 

It had been Steve's reply. 

From Steve 10:39AM   
Okay then. I guess this is an... 

Fuck. 

Not a '_No_' though. An '_Okay then_' had to do. He was going to take it. 

"We didn't," Sharon told him, her voice pulling him back, his eyes leaving his phone behind. She was watching him with curiosity. 

"Nothing happened?" he asked, just needed to be sure. He should be asking for the fact that they worked together. For the sake of them being friends. The fact that they had all been too drunk to make good decisions. Sane decisions. 

But he wasn't. He was asking because he wasn't single. Maybe in Steve's eyes, he still was. But not for his own. He was seeing someone, however casual, and he was the one insisting it'd just be _them_. 

"Nothing happened," Jack assured him, but Brock couldn't stop the glance to his hands on the table. A coffee mug between his fingers. Something had happened. 

"Good," Brock said nonetheless, nodding to help his brain believe it. "Good, because-," he laughed helplessly. "You know? Because-," he tried again, staring at Jack. "Because of-," Brock stumbled over every word as the other two remained painfully quiet. "Because of the thing, right? The friendship thing. The everything, right?" 

Sharon and Jack exchanged a clueless look and Brock wondered if what he remembered had even happened in the first place. 

"I have to go," he added hurriedly, already heading for the door. "I have to feed Crossbones," he said, trying to dodge his friends looks. "She'll hate me if she has to wait." 

* * *

He knew he looked like shit when Steve buzzed him in and no attempt to fix himself in the elevator seemed to work. He had been waiting for this moment for two and a half weeks, had been dying with his stupid longing. With how stupidly he had missed Steve. Now, this was the moment he was granted. 

It wasn't fair. 

Brock stood in the doorway breathless, nervous, held out his phone with a cold hand. "Can I use your charger?" he asked to his own surprise. It wasn't the greatest opener and he realized that as he gazed at a surprised Steve. Channeling everything that was hopeful. "And can I use your shower?" he almost pleaded, ashamed for his look, when Steve looked well-rested and perfect and comfortable. In his gray shirt and with his hair pushed back. Fingernails short and clean as he reached out to take Brock's phone from him. "Again?" he added, wincing over his entire life. "And can we go over to mine to feed my cat?" he threw in as well, knowing how ridiculous he sounded. It was all he wanted though. Had wanted for every long and awful hour of those seventeen days. Be with Steve. "Feed Crossbones and then maybe catch up on some sleep?" he wondered, pleading with every cell of his body. Steve's expression remained calm, just that slight bit amused as he let Brock go on humiliating himself further. He was probably trained well at handling insane passengers. "Have sex," he offered, "like we said we would? But like-," he struggled, but had lost all sense of self-preservation by now, "-any way you want." 

Steve watched him for another second, before he turned the phone over in his hand to check the port. Then he stepped aside to let Brock in. 


	9. Chapter 9

"I know I'm a mess," Brock said, avoiding Steve's eyes. He felt small, misplaced, entirely unsure of himself. Sorry for himself this time around. "You don't have to say it." 

"I wasn't going to," Steve said quietly. More than anything in the world, Brock wanted to believe him. 

Although Steve's apartment was the same, it was different. There was no way to put a finger on it. To describe exactly what had changed. But it wasn't the same place Brock remembered leaving behind those couple of weeks ago. 

"You alright?" Steve asked, the situation surreal for both of them. 

Brock nodded, hands shaking though they were slowly warming up. Trembling once more or still. His knees didn't feel steady either. He didn't feel alright. He felt like he was going to be sick. 

"Thanks," he said, stepping carefully further into the room as if it were the first time. As if he couldn't be sure the floor would last. Carry him. Both of them. "For this," he added, mumbling. He felt heavy and tired and as if last night had aged him a couple of years. 

There was nothing wrong, not really, but not much was right either. None of it was Steve's fault. So there was very little to say. 

"It's nothing," Steve assured him, surely meant it politely. But he sounded as if it really was nothing to him. As if he barely registered Brock's presence in the first place. 

"I'm sorry," Brock said, kept talking for his own comfort. His own company.

"What for?" Steve asked, eyeing him carefully. 

"Last night, I-," Brock started, crossing and uncrossing his arms in front of his body. No idea what to do with his hands when they weren't on Steve. "I wanted to be here with you," he admitted, rubbing his eyes that burned for no particular reason. "I was trying to flirt, I was trying to end up here for sex." He didn't like having Steve's eyes on him like that. The heavy gaze making him feel uneasy. "But today," he went on, unsure of Steve's reaction. "Today, I'm hungover and I feel like shit and I can't imagine it living up to anything we did before. Anything you did before. Anyone." 

Steve watched him for another second, holding out as if he expected Brock to add something else. To keep going. But there wasn't really anything else to say about it. Then Steve just shrugged. And Brock just nodded. 

There wasn't anything else to say about it. 

While his phone charged, idle by Steve's bedside, Brock went from one to seventeen percent when he made good use of Steve's floss and mouthwash. Then up over twenty within those first couple of minutes he stood under the showerhead. The hot water relaxed his tense muscles as the steam soothed his sore airways and his dry eyes. 

The selection of soap and scrubs, shampoo and conditioner that Steve had neatly lined up on the steel rack got him well over thirty and though his breath hitched in surprise, he couldn't deny the boost in energy and confidence when Steve stepped into the shower with him. Naked but pale. More vulnerable than Brock had ever seen him. 

He didn't know what Steve needed, but feeling recharged to almost half his usual self, Brock put a hand on his cheek, before he gently guided him closer, chin first into a slow kiss. 

Brock blamed it on the alcohol still in his system for how dizzy he felt, Steve's lips on his. As quiet as usual, as composed. But Steve felt different all the same. Approachable. Containable. Less of a handful and easy to be handled instead. 

And Brock made use of it. 

His hand on the side of Steve's neck fingers grazing through his hair, the other on his shoulder, making its way down slow. Over his biceps and his elbow, rushing down his forearm along with the water. He wanted to hold Steve's hand. Wouldn't stop until their fingers intertwined, until they were a step further on this ruined morning, a little more normal. 

The water was hot, but Steve's fingers were cold once Brock brushed his own over them, made some space between them for the feelings he shouldn't have. Steve's mouth was hot when Brock let his tongue slip past his own lips. 

Usually, Steve wouldn't let him, took charge within seconds, to kiss just how he wanted to. This time, it was going to be Brock's turn. He blamed that thought on the alcohol too, his determination to remain in control. But Steve made no attempt to even try anyway. He let himself be kissed, let his hand be held. 

There was no trace of arousal radiating off him, not like it always did, any second of any given day. Steve Rogers looking for sex, thinking about sex, needing it so badly. 

Steve seemed both broken and cured when he leaned into the kiss, the press of his lips more submissive than insistent, pleading more than demanding. Sad more than playful. 

It would have messed with Brock's head on a good day, but it straight up fucked with him, hungover and with no idea what he was doing. 

He liked Steve like that, but he hated it too. He liked Steve's bare chest against his own, the way Steve let his free hand brush over the side of Brock's back. His hesitant touch, unsure and insecure. So unlike him. Better. And worse. It was new, so it was strange. They would get used to it. The bitterness of it would fade. 

It had to. 

Brock broke the kiss first, didn't know what to do with this version of Steve, still didn't know what to do with him when Steve put his head on Brock's shoulder, breathing against his neck, sweet and threatening all the same. 

"What's wrong?" Brock asked. He had to. "You're not yourself." 

Another shrug. 

"Is this your way of punishing me?" Brock asked, wrapping one arm around Steve's waist. He wanted to keep him close despite it all. 

There was a long pause, unbearably long, before Steve spoke, voice so thin that it ignited some despicable rage within Brock's chest. He didn't like being angry with Steve. It brought out the worst in him. 

"For what?" Steve asked finally. They really needed to stop having these kind of conversations in the shower. 

"For what I said," Brock guessed. "In the past. Those things about you. That you're too much. Too loose. Been with too many guys. Too many people." Everything hurt as he spoke. Lips and teeth and the roof of his mouth. Those ugly words that had been poisoning his thoughts. "Are you toning it down now just so I'll admit I liked it better before? Pretending not to care when we don't fuck and all that. Being quiet. Pliant. Allowing me to do that," he added, squeezed Steve's hand that he was holding to make his point. 

Another pause, before Steve pulled his body back slowly so he could look Brock in the eye. "What?" he asked, confusion all over his face. Either genuine or he was a damn good actor. 

Brock couldn't stop himself from looking Steve over, trying to get a grip on what was going on between them. Trying to figure out what he wanted from Steve. Nothing felt right anymore. 

"It's not you," Brock said, eyes back up as he watched Steve's face. "If you need me to say it, fine. I liked you better before. You being you," Brock said, immediately wondered what it meant to him. Steve being arrogant, his aggressive sexuality. His charming small talk, his relentless flirting. His laugh. "Too much and too loose and with all that baggage. Untamed. I like that better. You wanting something from me," he admitted. "Not just letting me, but wanting me. Me. When you could have anyone." 

Steve wanting him. Brock knowing he could have him. Whenever. Steve needing it more than Brock. Steve desperate for one thing, eager for sex all the goddamn time. Brock desperate to change him, save him. Pointing out the error in Steve's ways. Desperate to fuck it out of him. All the goddamn time. Desperate to have him, one way only then in all the ways. Desperate to have Steve for himself. 

"I'm not doing that," Steve said, somehow for the first time ever, sounding as naked as he was. "Punishing you." 

* * *

Physically, Brock went up to seventy percent when Steve bought him coffee and a sandwich on the way to his apartment, but emotionally he still felt drained. 

He tried to forget about it, but he couldn't help but turn his head every couple of steps, terrified they'd run into Jack on his way home from Sharon. 

It was cold but it wasn't raining, and they could have taken the subway to save some time, but Brock just got them onto the next bus instead to be off the street. 

Inside it was warm and comfortable, Steve by the window and his knee pressed against Brock's. It was nice. 

It was better than nice. 

So Brock put his hand on Steve's thigh, unable to care today what people thought. If they even thought anything about it. 

Steve let him. Didn't say anything about it. No cruel remark, not questioning if it was necessary. Brock couldn't help but like him more for it. 

Like him. 

That wasn't even it, was it? He liked him more than that. And a guilty conscience started to rise with last night's memories. 

The moment he put his hand in Crossbones's fur, Brock felt entirely recovered, finally catching up with his phone that hadn't even started up losing battery again. 

As he dug the good wet food out from his cabinet, his way of apologizing for not coming home earlier, he finally opened the message he didn't have a chance to read before. 

From Steve 10:39AM   
Okay then. I guess this is another emergency?

It really had been. 

"Those past weeks," Steve started, standing in the doorway as Brock emptied the can into Crossbones's bowl, shoulder against the frame like he did often. Looking good in Brock's space. Even better now than that first time around. "Work was rough," he admitted. "I'm on a different schedule, been flying long distance mostly." He shrugged, then reconsidered his words. "All of the flights were long distance. I'm not adjusting that well. I've been jet lagged." He paused, looking at Brock with a pained expression. "Not myself, like you said. I've been trying to ignore it. But it all came crashing down sooner than I hoped." 

Brock stood up a little straighter, tossed the empty can into the trash. This was Steve being honest. Being open and aching for connection. Being human. 

Here in Brock's kitchen, an early Saturday afternoon, the smell of cat food between them. Brock in his stained, sweat-soaked shirt and yesterday's socks. 

Steve was about to open his mouth, say something else, more, explain himself further, when Brock cut in, anxious thoughts toppling over in his head.

"I fucked up," he forced out quickly, ripping that bandaid off. He took a step towards Steve, but kept his legs still at a safe distance. "I fucked up, because it was supposed to be just us, but I kissed someone else." He threw his hands up, covering his eyes like a kid. He couldn't bear looking at Steve. "A friend. But it didn't mean anything," he added, voice muffled behind his wrists. "I let someone else touch my ass too though," he admitted, realizing just how dumb he had been. How stupidly naive and inconsiderate. Worse than Steve could have ever been. "A friend too."

Because he let it all happen without thinking about it. Without wanting it. He had just let it happen without thinking about what he wanted. 

"It didn't mean anything either," Brock added though, hoping it was true. He was tempted to finish there and leave it be. But he knew it was only half of the confession. And he now had to make a choice. Lie to Steve or honor the tentative trust between them. Lie or take full responsibility. "And I fucked up, because I can't stop thinking about you," he said then. Confused still. Tired. Resigned. "And I-," he tried, fighting himself as he kept going. "I feel things. For you. And I want to say that it doesn't mean anything, but, to be honest, I don't know what it means."

There was another long, insufferably silent moment, just like before in the shower, until Steve made a sound of utter confusion and his face showed every facet of it once Brock let his hands drop to his sides. He wanted to reach out instead. Pull Steve in and keep him close. 

"That's-," Steve started, glanced down at Crossbones who was blissfully unaware of the things her human friend had just confessed to. It wasn't like Steve to be at a loss of words. "That's a lot," he just said then. "To take in."

"I wasn't thinking," Brock told him. "Last night, I wasn't thinking." He let himself take another step. Fingers itching with how much he wanted to touch Steve. "I wasn't thinking much this morning either. All I knew was that I wanted to get away from them and be with you. I want to be with you most of the time." 

"And now?" Steve asked, chin low as he watched Brock from his spot by the door. Close enough to the hallway for another quick exit. Another rushed goodbye, anger and spite making him leave when all Brock wanted was for him to stay. 

"Now?" Brock asked, forcing his fears down his throat. 

"Are you thinking now?" Steve wondered, crossed his feet and Brock took it for a sign that he wouldn't run just yet. 

"I'm-," Brock tried, but then doubted he was thinking clearly even now. "Don't be like that," he said instead. Didn't know where they were going. "Please don't be like that." 

"Stunned?" Steve asked, smiled at Brock. A teasing, tentative smile that caught Brock off guard. 

"You're impossible to read," he said then, finally allowing his feet to take him all the way into Steve's space. "Someone ever told you that?" he asked, the heavy scent of Steve's cologne in his nostrils. 

"Someone once told me I'm overwhelming," Steve said, his body so steady close to Brock's. He hadn't flinched, wasn't going to flee from him. "Does that count?"

"I'm sorry," Brock told him. Let his forehead bump into Steve's collarbone, before he tilted his head up and placed a careful kiss on the underside of his jaw. "I'm sorry for saying that," he clarified, lips still on Steve's skin. Added to the countless words already whispered in similar proximity. "And for fucking up like that. I'm sorry for that too," he apologized, kissed Steve again, just beneath his chin. 

Before he had a chance to pull back, Steve had dipped his head down, caught Brock's lips with his own, determined and hungry as always. Taking charge as he pushed Brock back into the other side, the edge of the doorframe hitting his spine just a little too hard. 

Brock jerked at the sudden surge of pain, hands coming up to cling to Steve, pull him closer still. "Don't stop," he breathed, when he felt Steve's hesitation. It barely hurt anymore. 

"You smell good," Steve said, kissed Brock again, slower this time, as if Brock tasted differently too. 

"It's all you," Brock reminded him of where he'd showered this morning. He still had the hem of Steve's shirt twisted between his fingers, desperate to hold onto him. 

"Even better," Steve said, his hands on Brock's hips, pinning him in place. 

"You're not overwhelming," Brock admitted, voice soft. The space between them heated but quiet. Private and safe. Sacred. "I've just been weak." 

Steve stared at him, eyes darting back and forth all over Brock's face. Taking it all in. Assuring himself of the honesty behind those words. The nonverbal confessions. Trying to spot a lie. 

But it was all true. 

Brock was standing there, that one moment, helplessly in love and with only Steve's eyes on him. Then Steve's lips, and just a moment later his chest found the kitchen table like his back had hit the doorframe. 

The bump and the screeching wood on the kitchen floor sent Crossbones running, voicing her dissatisfaction all the way into the living room. 

Brock listened, followed her complains to distract himself. He was bent over forward, palms out flat in front of him with Steve draped over his back, their hips aligned with no space between them. His fingers fumbling with the buttons of Brock's jeans. 

"I'm gonna get you off," Steve told him, stating the obvious. 

Brock nodded, trying to catch on. "You better," he said, already feeling out of breath. 

Steve's hands were quick and Brock's cock was free before he could make sense of it all. Before he could understand how they had managed to talk about all that shit and end up here. 

Brock groaned at the first touch, Steve's fingers working him over as if they'd done this a million times before. Painfully familiar with what he liked and what he needed. When he needed it. When he needed less to catch a breath and when he needed more to keep the edge. 

With Steve's breath on his neck, and Steve's own cock pressing against his ass, Brock's mind took him to all those places he had aimed to deny before. 

They were still fully clothed, except for the opened jeans and where Steve had forced his boxers out of the way, the thicker seams leaving imprints on his skin whenever Steve's full weight was on him. 

Brock's head was filled with chaos, his mind trying to name every last emotion running through his body, trying to put into reasonable words what Steve was doing to him. What he meant to him. What they could be. 

He shut his eyes tight, unable to stop himself from giving into those unnamed feelings, into the waves of wanting and dreaming, into the way his chest tightened, too small for how complicated they were. 

It was only after Steve had settled for a rhythm, for a firm grip, too dry, almost painful, when his free hand came up along Brock's arm until their fingers were laced together. Apologizing for sore skin and imperfect angles. 

Brock stared at both their hands, cheek pressed onto the table, fingers blurring into one messy pile. He felt the view down to his toes. 

"Steve," he tried, barely recognized his voice. He was close. Didn't know how he got there. Knew it too well. 

Sometimes sex wasn't about sex. Sometimes it was about hand holding, was about apologies, was about self-discovery. 

Steve's chest was hot against his back, his shirt riding up, exposed skin sensitive to the small movements of Steve's body. 

All of his weight seemed to gather in the tip of his cock, dangerously heavy, if it wasn't for Steve's saving hands, skilful friction over tender skin and his soothing touch. 

Steve was curling his hips behind him, taking whatever he needed, their hands locked, the sound of their breaths. They could have had sex, fucked in any position they'd wanted, naked and with half a day spreading out if front of them. 

Instead Brock felt his stomach tighten and his knees swaying in the middle of his kitchen, inner layer of the collar of his shirt wet from sweat, Steve's mouth dragging over his hairline, his fingers dragging over the length of Brock's cock. 

When he came, he was thankful for the table beneath him as he lost posture and control of his muscles, body shaking with his release. 

He heard it hit the floor, whatever Steve didn't manage to catch, didn't want to, louder than necessary, in thick splattering drops. 

"Fuck," Brock breathed, throat dry and aching over the single curse. 

Then Steve's hand hit the table beside his face, palm wet, skin sliding over the surface, smudged come where Brock ate his breakfast. 

The scent hit his nose and Steve's hips his ass, dry friction enough to get him off too. 

Or so Brock thought. 

A second later the hand was gone and the buckle of Steve's belt was jingling open and Brock held his breath for what he sensed coming. 

His shirt was gross anyway. Ruined from last night, awaiting its final cut. 

They hadn't fucked often enough to have a routine, they hadn't had too many chances to find one. To even think of finding one. 

And yet Steve had filed away every one of Brock's own touches to mirror them. And Brock knew he wanted to come over his back, wanted it all over Brock's skin and run his fingers through the mess. 

And he arched his spine to accommodate his wish, to show Steve that he didn't mind, hadn't minded the first time no matter how irritated he had been. If Steve liked to play with his come half as much as he liked to have his ass played with, Brock wouldn't be the one denying him. He knew better now than to try and change him. 

"Do it," he urged him on instead, voice strained and rough. "Just fucking drench me in it already." 

Steve did, didn't bother to aim, to watch out, to push any fabric out of the way. Most of it made it onto Brock's skin, stray strands getting caught up in his shirt or hitting the waistband of his jeans. None of it mattered. 

This time, Steve didn't use his tongue to drive it through the mess, his panting breaths just as wet against Brock's spine. 

This time he let his forehead fall onto Brock's back, into the stripes of his come, pushed his head forward, Brock's shirt further up, spilled climax smeared over tensed muscles and bones that started to ache. 

He was getting so goddamn old. 

"Tell me again how this wouldn't live up to what I did before," Steve said, his own voice just as wrecked as Brock's. "How it wouldn't compare." He pulled back, hand leaving Brock's, feet unsteady at first, but he didn't want Brock to support his weight any longer than necessary. Shallow breaths and ragged body having given the effort away that it cost. 

Brock took his time to gather his body, find enough traction with his fingers to push himself up. Steve may be desensitized to what Brock preferred in the bedroom, but apparently that didn't mean he wasn't still losing himself in other ways. 

"You really like it like that, don't you?" Brock questioned, tucking himself back in and buttoning up his jeans. "Messy like that? And all over the place? You really like it a lot." He gave his kitchen floor and the table a pitiful look. He needed to clean this up. 

"And you don't?" Steve asked, pushed his hair back with that same goddamn hand he had used on Brock first and on himself later. 

Brock stared, eyes searching Steve's face for an answer of his own. Of what this meant. Searching for forgiveness. Be absolved after his confession. But Steve was as hard to read as ever. 

"I love it," Brock said, steady voice and a relentless gaze. Nothing to betray him. He didn't love it. Part of him was fine putting up with it. Part of him could picture getting used to it. Part of him hated it. He didn't love it. 

He loved Steve. 

In some chaotic, haywire, lawless way, he loved Steve. All the way. 

Steve snorted, shook his head but smiled somewhat fondly. 

"Come here," Brock said, too brave for his own good. Steve hovered for a second, undecided, then gave in and stepped closer. 

Brock straightened his shirt once, then traced a wet strand of Steve's hair with a careful finger. Soothed Steve's left eyebrow, sweat or come or both, with a tender thumb. Then he nudged his head down, softly pulled him in for another kiss. 

* * *

He spent most of his Sunday staring at the stains on the floor, dust sticking to the dried spots. He couldn't bring himself to wipe them off. Luckily, no one knew the sickening ways his obsession with Steve was shaping out. His cheeks were still burning up in shame with no one but himself around to judge. 

Steve hadn't left until late in the evening, leaving only because he was supposed to be on a flight right now, deadheading to Atlanta. 

"You hate this, don't you?" Brock had asked with Steve in his arms, torn between letting him go and holding onto him. 

Brock hadn't bothered to change, to shower, to ask himself what he was doing. He had kissed Steve in his kitchen, had kissed him in the hallway, at the foot of his bed until they fell in it. 

Had kissed him there, his mouth and the bridge of his nose. Along his jaw. Kissed his forehead, the side of his neck. Had kissed him with his eyes closed and his hands on Steve. The gray shirt and his warm skin. Had kissed him until it grew dark around them. 

Steve shook his head then, fingers going up to his temple first, then rubbing over his eyebrow. He wasn't sure. Wasn't sure what it meant either if he really didn't. Then he settled them into Brock's hair, fingertips grazing over the skin behind his ear. "I don't even hate that you have feelings for me." 

Brock watched him, tried to make out his features with how little light reached them through the windows, tried to take it all in. Every last detail of his face, regretted now that they were so close. He wanted to see all of him. Every part of his body, the knee that he rocked back and forth and the foot that was tangled up in Brock's sheets. The little strip of bare skin between the hem of his shirt and his belt. The shape of his shoulders and his chest, rising with every breath. 

"No?" Brock asked, leaning into Steve's touch, tightened his own fingers in Steve's shirt. 

Steve shook his head again. "Just don't blame me if I don't," he said, tension building in his body and in his tone. 

"Explain it to me," Brock offered, thinking they might still stand a chance to work this out. 

Brock still stared when Crossbones hopped up the kitchen counter, sat down next to him, definitely not amused over the lack of mopping either. 

"I know," Brock told her, scratched her head. "It's ridiculous," he admitted, correcting himself then. "I'm ridiculous." 

If he was being honest, he was way past ridiculous. Annoyed with himself, he checked his phone since Steve had promised he'd let him know once he'd landed in Atlanta. Checked his connection once he found his inbox empty. 

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he slid his phone into his pocket, didn't trust Crossbones to just not knock it off the counter if he'd left it there. Then he grabbed a couple of paper towels, squeezed some soap onto them and got on with it. 

* * *

O'Hare felt empty, chances of running into Steve were down to zero, and with the constant anticipation removed, Brock's work days were calm on good days and boring on worse. 

With those new flights, Steve went in one day and returned only days later, scrambled through time zones, exhausted and run dry. Scheduled to return on Thursday. Sometime towards the end of Brock's shift. 

Scheduled to come home with him. 

"Got you an extra shift," Rollins announced, slow clapping Brock's shoulder a little too hard on their way to the terminal. His shoulder at least. Far from more dangerous territories. 

"What extra shift?" Brock asked, smiling still over the thought of Steve. Of Steve making plans with him. Days ahead. 

"With Pierce," Jack clarified and Brock stumbled over his own feet. "Friday night," he added, steadied Brock with a hand on his elbow

"What does that mean?" Brock asked, suddenly more nervous than excited over the potential pay. "What's the job?" 

"Personal security," Jack told him, both of them falling back into step next to each other. "Some sort of negotiation. He just wants us to make sure everything remains civil." 

"So, it's easy money?" Brock asked, still feeling some degree of unease. 

"Super easy," Jack assured him with a grin. "It's out of town though," he added, trying but failing to sound casual about it. 

"You're kidding?" Brock hoped, but he knew it was futile. 

"That a problem?" Jack asked, trying and failing to sound casual once more. He was hurt and Brock knew him well enough to recognize it. 

"It's not," Brock assured him. Willed himself to believe it. They were friends. Shit happened, but they were friends. Brock wasn't going to make it awkward now. It wasn't a problem. "I just had plans that's all." He was still going to see Steve. Was still going to make him stay the night. He was still going to have his morning coffee with him. Breakfast even. At that godforsaken table. 

"What plans?" Jack asked and Brock bit his lips over his loose tongue. 

Maybe Steve could live with what had happened. With what Brock had done and with how he felt. And maybe Brock could live with what Steve didn't feel. Wouldn't ever. But they were still figuring things out. Privately. 

"Watch the game," he lied. There was always a game. And a guy like Rollins would understand. They were both the kind of guys who understood. At least Brock had been. He hadn't been calm enough to watch any of the postseason games. 

"I make it up to you," Jack said with another pat on Brock's shoulder. Then he pulled him in for a second. 

"Please don't," Brock told him, grinned. His tone light, but last week's memories still weighed him down. The guilt of it all. It was all still there despite it. No matter what Steve had said. Forgiveness and all. 

They'd just begun to see paths. Possibilities. And Brock had just begun to see Steve through unfiltered eyes. Had just cautiously begun allowing himself to look. To listen. Had just begun to wonder. About love. 

He wouldn't risk losing Steve a second time. 


	10. Chapter 10

He had been up until late to get his place in order, undeniable urge to be his best for Steve. Have Steve feel at home. Have Steve enjoy himself while they were together. Have Steve over. 

In the morning, he had put on fresh sheets, chasing Crossbones out of the bedroom and closing the door behind her. This was going to be just his place today. His and Steve's. 

He'd bought a fresh box of condoms, one of the better bottles of lube, a level below Steve's nonetheless. There was tonic water in his fridge now. Vodka and gin in the freezer. 

Seeing Steve in his uniform was becoming some kind of annoying fetish, inexplicably so as Brock had seen men in uniforms his entire life. Had been one of them for years. Was around pilots ten hours a day. 

"Are you staying?" Brock asked. He was nervous, tried to hide it. But Steve was a judge difficult to host. Easy to seduce but difficult to please. 

He threw a glance into every room, checking if Crossbones had gone rogue in revenge. But the place was as neat as ever. 

"Maybe," Steve told him, hovering in the hallway still. Maybe was better than a flat out rejection. It was a good thing that part of Steve's uniform was a weekender, taking an overnight bag wherever he went. "How was work?"

"Same old," Brock called back. "Yours?" He liked this. This was what people talked about when they got home. What couples talked about. Lovers. Fuckbuddies. Friends. 

When Brock stepped back into the hallway, he caught Steve taking off his shoes. Caught him making himself comfortable. As if he was home. Home here. Brock loved the sight of it. 

"Same old," Steve just said. Impossible to read once more. 

"Jetlagged?" Brock asked, couldn't help but feel pride at the sight of Steve here. Stepping closer. Moving towards him. Boyfriend material despite Steve's objections. Brock couldn't get enough of it. Of him. 

Steve shook his head, and Brock noticed his gaze falling behind them into the kitchen. Onto the table. Where they last fucked. 

"The one time I can tell what you're thinking and I find myself hating it," Brock joked. Every part of him wanting Steve. Wanting to simply hug him. "You ruined my own place for me."

"You hate that too?" Steve wondered. He was irresistibly close by now, clogging all of Brock's senses with sex. With a primal attraction. With love that made him restlessly hungry, with love that called for a devouring action. 

"Not yet," Brock said, giving into the urge to touch, his hand going for Steve's thigh although he wanted his cock instead. 

"But you will?" Steve wondered, erection shaping at the edge of Brock's touch. 

"Eventually, I guess," Brock lied. He wouldn't ever hate this. Not regret it. All the contempt, rage and disgust would come from a place of need. Of needing Steve. Wanting him and couldn't have him. A Steve-deficiency, the jealousy syndrome. Sheer possessiveness. The ugly faces of innocent hearts. 

"Inevitably," Steve corrected, seemed to share Brock's need for proximity though. He leaned in close, closer, all the way, ready to hand himself over. 

"We're doomed, aren't we?" Brock recalled, heart beating louder than his words.

"I thought we'd established that," Steve agreed, but Brock couldn't hold back any longer. 

He needed Steve's lips on his, needed to get it out of his system. It was more complicated than that though, every kiss begging for a second, every second for a third. 

He needed more of Steve's skin too. More of his soul. All of his soul. 

"Because you hate being loved?" Brock wondered, quietly, forcing his lips to speak instead of kissing Steve. "'Cause you can't deal with it?" 

"So, now you love me?" Steve asked back, deflecting. He couldn't stand it even in theory. 

"Never said that," Brock reminded him, but it didn't matter. He was in love with Steve. And he loved him, somewhere, sometime, already. He could see his future self, live and in color, loving Steve and holding none of it back. 

He could already feel the heartache it would cost. 

And all he wanted now was to relish in it while it lasted. Push Steve open and into him. Let his love live there for a while. 

"Don't think you had to," Steve said, distracted by Brock's impatient hands on his waistband. His fingers playing with the button. He didn't want to give Steve the satisfaction of just moving onto sex right that second. Though it was hard to take it slow now that they had already kissed. Already tasted each other. 

"But you're still here," Brock noticed more consciously now. "Why?" he asked, question out there without a second thought. He would deny being this desperate to hear Steve say something, anything, that would go beyond a sexual desire. But he was that desperate. He was bleeding for it. 

"You want me to leave?" Steve threatened as he always did when things got personal. But he had taken off his shoes already, he was about to lose his pants. He couldn't just run off. He couldn't. Brock wouldn't let him. 

"Just tell me," Brock tried again. "Why you reply to my texts? Why you're still here? Why you keep coming back for more?" He needed an explanation. For his peace of mind. To calm his jealousy. His worries about Steve slipping away from him at any second. "What is it?" he pressed again. "To prove to me that I was wrong about you? What I said?" 

Steve looked at him with an empty stare that did more to prove Brock's first impression than negate it. He looked lost. Struggling to come up with a reason. Maybe love truly was unknown to him. Any and all forms of love, of infatuation, of stupid ass crushes even pre-schoolers understood. 

"Because you're not an asshole all the time," Steve said. Either an unsurprisingly dull answer to come up with, or a dishonest one. 

"You can have anyone," Brock argued, wanted a decent reply for a change. 

"So?" Steve just asked. Daring Brock to say those things for him. 

"So you like me," Brock offered. Feeling stupid then. Worried that Steve wouldn't take it. So he did what he knew would keep Steve happy, ran a finger all the way up his zipper before he got ready to push it back down. 

"I like that you take my mind off things," Steve corrected after a small pause. Couldn't even handle those other words when it was Brock speaking them for him. He was hard beneath Brock's hand though. His dick responding more eagerly than his mouth. 

"What things?" Brock pressed. It wasn't a good enough answer. Neither for his brain nor his heart. 

"Life," Steve tried. A little too general for Brock to be satisfied. "Other people's relationships," Steve admitted and Brock began to wonder about whose. About who had gotten Steve's head all wrapped up in their business. About who else Steve thought about when Brock wasn't around. Who he came to seek shelter from with Brock. 

His fingers moved without any conscious decision, granting Steve's cock an inch of freedom. 

"Stress," Steve added then. This one, Brock had already guessed. After last time. After Steve's sour mood and the way things had turned around. "Those days you just want to forget," he went on explaining nonetheless. "When you contemplate skipping plans, but you wouldn't want to be home either. That's when I'd rather be with you."

"Romantic," Brock commented, hoping to seem unimpressed. It all began to sound like a rebound situation to him. And he needed Steve to forget other people existed. If he couldn't, then Brock couldn't keep doing this. He was torn between wanting Steve and wanting to be rid of him. Resume his old life.

Steve looked at him with a hint of desperation now. He was out of words. Out of explanations. "I'm not trying to win you over," he insisted on then. He had to. Of course, he had to. 

"No," Brock said. Feeling equally defiant and defeated. "You already have, haven't you? And without trying to too." 

It didn't matter what Steve had been trying to do or not. It didn't matter what he did. Had done. The problem wasn't with his actions. Was with who he was instead. 

How he did things without aiming to. Without thinking about consequences. How he pretended not to be aware of his powers. His effects on people. How he was aware of it all, but then called what he had set in motion someone else's problem. 

Brock's problem. 

Now, he would have to deal with Brock wanting to keep it. His Problem. His feelings for Steve.

Keep Steve. 

If only because he knew it was going to annoy Steve. In fact, he wanted it to annoy Steve and he wanted to annoy Steve with it. 

Preferably for the rest of his life. 

There was a smile on Steve's lips when Brock didn't back out. Didn't back down. When instead he yanked the zipper all the way down so he could feel the heat of Steve's cock through his boxers. 

"I want you," Steve said then, voice so mellow that Brock had to close his eyes. Could only believe his ears if he let those words echo over and over again. 

I want you. 

I want you. I want you. I love you. I want you. I love you too. 

Steve's hands were barely on him, but Brock felt himself being pulled in nonetheless. Seeking more of Steve's body. His aftershave just above his collar, just above what was left of Captain Rogers, the pilot. Soaked into Steve's skin, neutral, professional, impersonal. 

"And I," Brock started, cutting himself off from speaking those words by kissing Steve softly, just above his chin, the spot he could reach without tilting his head. "I want you to stay," he finished, determined to kiss him until all of the scent was gone. And Steve smelled like Brock's sheets, like sex and like home. 

"For what?" Steve asked, his words were rude, -ish, but his posture was tender, approachable, appreciative of Brock's touch. "Hear me say goodnight or good morning?" he added, melting beneath Brock's palms, beneath his lips. 

"Whichever is the right answer," Brock just said, making good on his promise by kissing along Steve's jaw. 

Whichever was the right answer. 

To whatever question. 

He would always let Steve pick for him. For them. 

The skin beneath his lips was smooth, freshly shaven as usual, and he couldn't get enough of it, until Steve tilted his head to kiss him back, his mouth just for Brock. 

While they kissed, while they undressed, Brock had forgotten all about his bedroom, how it lay cleaned and bare and prepared before Steve like an offering, some stupid gesture of respect. 

He was still moving on autopilot when he put his own phone first on the nightstand, then took the one Steve handed to him on a similar reflex. The two phones on the nightstand, box of condoms in front of them, officiating the marriage. Then it hit him just how cheesy he had been. His brain just had to go there. 

"Is this dumb?" he asked, staring down at the altar of his problem. His feelings for Steve. His desperate attempt to find his approval. To make him stay. "Feels a little coupley, doesn't it?" 

"It's practical," Steve offered. Chose to ignore Brock's insecurities. Unphased by his worries. By him calling them coupley. 

"How do you want me?" Brock asked, didn't want to linger on it either. He was starting to make a fool of himself. Too early for his taste. He knew there were worse moments to come soon enough. Of embarrassment. Of clumsy inexperience. 

His unanswered offer had been in the back of his head for almost a week now. When he'd propositioned Steve about them switching, standing in front of him all fucked up by his night out. He was determined to stand by it. 

"We don't have to," Steve told him right away. Sounding just as determined. And sure, it was nice to know that he looked after him. That he wasn't going to call Brock on it just to make a point. 

But this thing with Steve, their whole _affair_, had taken over more space in Brock's mind that he'd like to admit. More space in his fantasies. Had maybe changed his mind on his principles. And there was only one way to find out whether it had changed his preferences as well. 

"Not asking what we have to do, asking what you want," Brock reminded him. Trying to stand firm in his decision. He wasn't ever going to say it out loud, but he wanted to give it up for Steve. He wanted to give to Steve. It was as simple as that. 

"You want me to spell it out?" Steve asked, busy still with getting naked all the way, barely glanced at Brock as he spoke. "I want you to go slow," he said then, wouldn't wait Brock out. Spelled it out right then and there instead. "When you fuck me, I want you to make it last." 

He gestured for Brock to move closer, step between his knees once he was sat on the edge of the bed. And Brock did, complied willingly, loved seeing Steve like that. Shirtless and right there in front of him. He hated to admit to it, but he loved looking down at him. 

Physically. 

"You sure I'm gonna be enough?" Brock asked, only able to phrase it due to his position. Knowing that Steve couldn't pack and run. Not with Brock between his legs and his hands on Steve's shoulders. Knowing it was the right thing though. Talking about it. About it all. His fears and Steve's issues. 

"Oh, come on. Not this again." Steve laughed and smiled as he looked up at Brock, not sharing the concern. 

"Don't be like that," Brock tried. He knew Steve meant well, but he didn't like hearing Steve laugh about him. When he tried to get this right. Address the elephant in the room. 

"Tired of the ever same shit?" Steve asked, the smile was still there, on his lips and in his eyes, though there was more tension in his tone now. 

Somehow, even now, Brock wanted nothing more than to kiss him again. 

"I worry I'll bore you," he admitted, legs restless and he couldn't meet Steve's gaze. "In bed," he added, suddenly self-conscious. As if this was just about him. And not about Steve all the same. 

But there was no use now to turn this on him. Accidentally offend him again. So Brock bit his tongue to keep quiet. 

"Still?" Steve asked. Genuine surprise on his face before he went on. "You may have an odd way to go about sex, Brock. About sex with me," he told him. "And I don't think I get the full extent of it, I don't think I agree with all of it, but you have yet to bore me with it." 

"Tell me you like it then?" Brock said in a subtle need to put Steve in his place. If he really had a weird way to handle their relationship, it wasn't just his fault. He wasn't the one fighting every little thing happening between them. He wasn't the one with the issues. With the baggage. Steve was the one who complicated the sex. The one who couldn't get enough. Who wanted it more than Brock. Who wanted it all the time. Who Brock had to satisfy so he wouldn't run off to find someone else. Anyone else. "Tell me you like me." 

It wasn't supposed to slip out like that. Not as needy and desperate. He was about to open his mouth to take it back, but came up empty instantly. Unable to think of something smart to say. Something useful. Then Steve relieved him. 

"Just don't call me a slut for it," he told him, forcing Brock's thoughts right back into the corner he had tried to move them away from. "Maybe not so soon," he added. Ashamed. Couldn't bear to look at Brock. Couldn't bear to look up at all. Stared at his feet instead. 

Steve was a paradox. Not too short of hypocritical. Angry with Brock for calling it like it was, and then getting off on it, too. Getting off on being talked down upon, being handled, managed, dealt with. He and his insatiable urges, all of his disordered sexual needs. 

"Steve," Brock started, took pity on him. Once more. Tilted Steve's head up so he would face him. "Tell me what I should call you instead." 

It was so blatantly clear that Steve wanted more intimate things from Brock. Complicated intimate things. That he wanted love but call it differently. That he wanted to be a slut for him, but wanted Brock to name it differently. 

"You don't do love and you're not my boyfriend," he went on. "I can't imagine anyone calling you baby and you liking it." 

If only he knew better how to go about this. About Steve. How to look after him. 

"I don't do nicknames either," Steve said immediately. Pushed it all away. As far away from him as it would go. Because he was Steve. Who didn't do anything normal. 

"Says Captain America," Brock reminded him. Laughed because the name sounded as ridiculous to him as always. 

"Maybe I've had too many," Steve contemplated more seriously. His voice sad and his expression lost. Lonely. 

"Yeah, maybe," Brock agreed. Just another thing Steve had had too many of. "What's a name no one calls you? Aside from Babe or Honey or whatever," he asked, hoping going about it the other way would make things easier. 

The fact that no one would ever be allowed to call Steve their own was just too damn sad. 

Brock didn't really expect him to answer when Steve looked back up at him to reply. "Steven," he informed Brock. "No one calls me that anymore." 

"Steven, huh?" The name tasted foreign on Brock's tongue. Wrong even. He couldn't really seem to make it fit. It wasn't Steven Rogers who he liked, loved maybe. It was Steve. 

"Not since I was a kid," Steve explained, looking unbelievably vulnerable. Too much for Brock to be comfortable with. It messed with his head all over again. Steve was Steve. Period. Fuck Steven. 

"Lie back and stay quiet," Brock said, didn't give himself another moment to second guess himself. He wasn't going to let Steve's loneliness loom over him. Nor his attempts to hide who he was or distract from it. Nor some stupid debt that didn't exist. 

To return a favor. 

He wouldn't let it get to his head. 

Ever. 

"Don't come just yet," he told Steve. Relenting. Yanked off his own shirt and then got to his knees. 

But didn't do it just to prove to Steve that he wasn't as inexperienced as he came off most of the time. Didn't do it as a favor or just because Steve had. Not for reciprocity. For balance. 

What Steve had done that first night, he did because he was a slut and he behaved like it. Whether Brock called him out on it or not. No matter how hard Brock wanted to forget about that. 

But Brock wasn't like that. 

No, he did it, because loving Steve was his own damn fault and now it was his turn to behave accordingly. 

Steve's cock was as perfect as the rest of him. Impeccable sight with an inexplicable strength beneath the surface. Overwhelming. Intimidating. Addictive. 

So Brock closed his eyes, shut it all out, let Steve hold his mouth hostage without objections. Without resistance. He knew it was only the start of things. Of places Steve would come to take over. Penetrate. Inhabit. 

Steve had pulled him way too deep into the gray areas and he was getting carried away. Roles blurring, preferences blurring, everything blurring. Only his feelings as clear as day. 

Steve tasted of sweat, sex and arousal. Of all things so distinctively Steve. In the past Brock had been shortcutting most blowjobs, had been in a state of rush or in daydreaming naivety. 

But with Steve, the act in itself had to hold purpose enough. Sex for sex's sake. A blowjob for the sake of a blowjob. Sex with Steve wasn't the expression of something greater, wasn't going to lead anywhere else. 

The thought was sickening and Brock tried to suffocate it with Steve's dick deep in his throat. He couldn't tell if it was good, if he was good, if Steve was satisfied with the work of his tongue and the feel of his mouth. 

So he kept going, tried to think less, imagining himself in Steve's place. He used a hand to match the stroke of his lips, fingers sliding easily over the spit-soaked cock. 

With only his own breaths to keep him company, Brock exhausted himself on Steve's body until his lips felt sore and numb. Then he moved up onwards, the trail of hairs and his navel. The endless chest and around one nipple. Careful on his neck, blood chased through the veins by a drumming pulse. Maybe he did well after all. 

And then Steve's lips. 

Sharing with him what he'd just done. With Steve who didn't mind. Who tasted himself in Brock with that hint of a smirk. 

Brock figured it was usually Steve on his knees aching to be fucked. That's what he'd heard. What everyone knew about Steve. Now Brock was becoming him. And beginning to understand him. 

"You okay?" Brock asked quietly. Though what he had wanted to ask was '_Was this okay?'_ instead. 

'_Was I okay?_'

Steve nodded, looking all sorts of things. Relaxed and happy, but tense too. Like he was working through something. Maybe asking himself the same question. If Brock was worth it. Worth staying. "You?" Steve asked, his voice reflecting that same mixed bag. 

"You scare me, you know that?" Brock admitted with zero control over his words. If he'd bothered to think about it for two seconds he might have just kept to himself. But he hadn't and before he could register what had happened, Steve was two feet farther from him, looking down his body and to his lap, checking for evidence of what he'd done. 

"Not like that," Brock hurried, wished he could take it back now. 

"How then?" Steve wondered. Probably didn't believe him. 

"I've never felt like this," he confessed. "I've been in love before," he started, more nervous than ever. "And this isn't exactly it." If it were, it would have been so much easier. "This is like, I don't know-." he struggled. Tried to make sense of it like practicing a new language. "Like being corrupted." 

"I don't think other people talk about love as much as we do," Steve said, "not even the ones in a relationship." He wasn't taking offense, not visibly, tension leaving his shoulders instead. Looking beautiful as ever. Invading every last part of Brock. Turning him inside out. 

There was no chance anyway to hide from what he wanted, from who he wanted, no chance to pretend otherwise. So he decided, on a hunch, to go all in. 

"I think this is what they call a relationship negotiation," Brock said. He had the feeling Steve wouldn't mind some bargaining now. Wouldn't shut him down. Not after what he'd just done. So he moved deeper into Steve's space again. He wanted this to be a negotiation. And he wanted to seal it with a kiss. 

"Any chance for a win-win?" Steve asked, surprising Brock with his words and by pulling him in and closing the distance between them. 

Maybe corruption had been too strong of a word, too harsh, too simple. But he felt changed at his core. And involuntarily so. 

He didn't want to love Steve, not all of him, but he did. Steve had begun to change, but Brock wasn't sure any of his changes were ever going to be enough. 

He didn't like the images running unfiltered through his head as Steve moved his body beneath him, as his needs unfolded with every kiss, but he wasn't able to suppress them either. Not even ignore them. 

Steve asking for it. Sweaty, desperately. Asking for it from just anybody. Steve on his knees for the next guy. The curve of his shoulder blade, his chest, his heels, in dim lights. The expensive sheets in his home that he wasn't worth on a good day, his body oozing sex, sleek and sticky like a picture perfect honey trap. 

Brock had Steve right in front of him, right there with him. He had his hands on the same sharp edge of where Steve's shoulders moved when he reached out to pull Brock in. Had his hands on the flexed muscle just above his heart, a palmful of flesh, too much for any decent taste. Had his fingers pressed to the underside of his feet as he helped Steve put his knees up, legs spread wide for Brock to work him open between them. Every last spot of him beautiful. Deceiving. Tempting. 

But all those shameful images took over still, filters over Brock's vision, every glance just a snapshot between obscene poses and misguided devotion. 

With every new breath, Brock tried to tell himself to snap out of it. Steve had been good, for weeks now, and Brock wanted to believe him. Wanted to treat his body as if it had no history. As if it was for no one but Brock to discover. 

He felt a shiver over his shoulders, down to his elbows and Steve's legs shuddered as if he had passed it over. 

"You're good like this?" he wondered. Worried that Steve was more fragile than he thought. More fragile than what his reputation had Brock believed. He looked different there, on Brock's bed, his body strained and torn between pain and pleasure, between the heat beneath his skin and the cold of the air around them. 

"Maybe I'm a little out of shape," Steve admitted. He didn't look out of shape. 

Maybe Steve wasn't used to this position. Wasn't used being faced, looked at, kissed during sex. 

"Hey," Brock started, head still wrapped up in Steve's past. "How about we skip the prep," he offered, prayed Steve would agree. He really, really wanted Steve like this. When he was still tight. Somewhat untouched. Underprepared. 

"Why?" Steve questioned instead. Couldn't just trust Brock to know what was good for him. Of course, he couldn't. 

"You know why," Brock tried, hoped it would be enough. He wanted to spare Steve the humiliation of spelling it out. 

"Brock," Steve bargained, trying to come up with a reason not to. "We're not gonna skip," he just said then. His voice giving away that he was arguing out of principle. Out of habit. Out of self-preservation. "Either you do it," he almost threatened, "or I'll do it myself." 

Steve's hole didn't look too bad. There was a chance, Brock could still enjoy himself even after he'd fingered Steve for a while. But then, it never looked bad in the first place. Their first night. When it had fallen apart just like Brock had, trying to make it work. 

He felt it then, right next to the place where all the love for Steve came from, more hatred for him. For his past, his history. All the things he had done. Before Brock. Without him. All the years he'd spent with other people. Too many people. Wasted years. And his wasted body at the core of it. At the centre of things Brock couldn't fix. Couldn't get back. 

"Why you're so obsessed with this?" 

The sound of Steve's voice startled him and yet for a solid second he wasn't sure if he'd imagined the question or if Steve had really addressed him. He shrugged. 

There was no answer good enough within reach. One that wouldn't hurt Steve. One that wouldn't crack open places in Brock he wouldn't know how to seal again. 

One that wouldn't bring up more shit. About sex. About sex with Steve. About Steve. About love and Steve. And about how loving Steve was the worst thing that ever happened to Brock, because now he was all wrapped up in him. In someone impossible to love. Forbidden to be in love with. If he had any self-respect at least. Someone who didn't deserve it. Who was so easy that it ridiculed everyone who did love him. And maybe the only way Brock could justify loving him was by hurting him and by taking him over, making him his own. If not through the force of his feelings, or the weight of a label, then by invading all of him physically, all within reach, but still, 

he was not 

'_obsessed_' 

with it. 

He wasn't obsessed with any of it. 

"You know you don't-," Steve tried, pulling Brock from his thoughts once more, before he broke off. Started anew. "You know sex isn't just about that, right?" he asked instead. "We can do other stuff." 

"And you'll be off looking to get it from someone else," Brock said, feeling the stress of their conversation. He could barely think straight nor make sure he'd filter his thoughts for potential sentences that would offend Steve and make him leave. 

But Steve stayed. Shook his head, before what started as a smirk turned into a full grin. 

"What?" Brock asked, still didn't like the idea of Steve laughing about him. "What's so funny?" 

Steve shrugged, but the smile remained even when he spoke again. "Think this might be one of the rare times I'm actually the jealous one." 

"Jealous?" Brock asked nervously. "Of me?" Though he liked the thought, he had no idea where Steve was going with this. 

Steve sat up straight to lean in for another kiss. One Brock didn't know he needed. Slow and soft, yet intense. And if he didn't know any better, he would have called it loving even. 

"There are a million ways to have sex," Steve reminded him. His voice was quiet and calm, but his tone was serious. "And you have yet to discover about nine hundred ninety-nine thousand of them. So, if you don't like fucking me, Brock, you don't have to. You shouldn't." 

Brock was still processing his words, trying to catch on, to sort through all the ways he certainly didn't want to know anything about, when he was being kissed again. Just as gently. Just as sweet. Just as short. Too short. And Brock wished he could hold Steve in place when he pulled back. Wished Steve didn't know as many ways to fuck as he did. 

"You really wish you were the sexually inept one for a change?" Brock wondered out loud, knew how he sounded somewhat dumbfounded. It wasn't what he had been going for. He had wanted to make Steve laugh. 

"Well," Steve started as at least another smile spread over his face. "You have me to discover them with. 

"Of course," Brock scoffed, but he didn't mean it. Not entirely. "Only you would be jealous of the guy who gets to fuck you. Which is, for the record, exactly what I want to do." 

Tonight, it wasn't going to be Steve. Doing any of this to himself. It was Brock. Steve was here with him. By his own choice. And for some reason a small part of Brock felt some satisfaction over that kind of jealousy too. "All the time actually," mumbling as he motioned for Steve to lie back, as he shuffled closer again between his legs. "That's kind of the problem." 

He wanted Steve all the time. Wanted to have as much of him as he had given to anybody else. He wanted his fair share, if not more. He wanted all of Steve. Any less wouldn't ever be enough. 

"Do I still have to be quiet or can I tell you how amazing this feels?" Steve asked, the second Brock had one wet finger up his ass. Tight in one second, already softening with the next. 

"This?" Brock wondered. Decided to put a little more effort into his work then. Dragging his finger out slow and pushing in back gently. It was nice hearing Steve be appreciative. So he wanted to make sure Steve would be able to feel every second of it. For as long as he was still responsive to such a small stretch. 

All Brock wanted was for Steve to say it again. How amazing Brock was. To him. 

"Yeah, that," Steve told him, getting lost in it already. Predictable, but it left Brock with some lost confidence restored. 

"You feel amazing," he corrected gently. It wasn't just something to say to make Steve feel better about himself. It was true. Steve did feel amazing. Despite it all. "All the time. Always have," he admitted in return. Wanted to leave part of himself with Steve forever. Inside him. "Kind of why I want to keep doing this while I fuck you." 

"Figured as much," Steve said, as if he hadn't enjoyed himself last time. As if he hadn't come twice from that same thing. 

"You want it too, don't you?" Brock wondered, already knowing his answer. He wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid. He knew what Steve was about. That's why they were a good fit. Why Brock was good for Steve. Why, maybe, they were meant to be. 

"You know it," Steve admitted, though Brock could tell by his voice how difficult it was for him. He had expected another denial. More sarcasm. Anything other than Steve confirming what both of them knew for a long time now. 

But he had nothing to be ashamed of. Not here with Brock, not anymore. They would take care of each other. Give each other what they needed. 

For the first time since they've started hooking up, Brock forced himself to go as slow as possible. Just like Steve had asked him to. Tried to make it last. Tried to take it all in for himself. His fingers all over Steve and inside him. Relishing in the way Steve's body let him in again. Then over and over afterwards. Opening up for what Brock needed too. 

He fingered Steve for as long as he could without screwing himself over. He didn't want to lose all friction. With Steve it was such a fine line. He needed to be loose enough to take all of what Brock was willing to give him, but couldn't be as loose as to just take anything without resistance. 

It was still up to Brock to walk that line and find its balance, Steve unhelpful entirely. All that he wanted was to be filled and fucked, leaving Brock to figure out how. And not ruin it with fingers too eager for their own good. 

This time, he wanted Steve on his back, wanted to be able to see him, all of him. Wanted for Steve to have someone to connect with. Understand that sex was more than a fuck. Steve didn't object, although the position was so unfamiliar to him. Maybe he needed it more than Brock. 

His fingers were steady and he was quick when he rolled the condom on, only his heartbeat giving away his anticipation. The pressure of satisfying Steve. Being one of so many once again. Trying to outshine whatever they'd done to Steve in the past. 

He had his cock in his hand, lined up with Steve's hole when he held back. "Ask me for it," he said instead of pushing in. Needed Steve to reassure him that this was for both of them. That this wasn't just Brock imagining it. Who Steve was. Making it all up. All of Steve's ways and his desperate needs. Needed Steve to admit to it. To who he was. Without a doubt. 

"How did I end up here?" Steve asked instead, looking a little out of it. "How did you?"

Brock stared at him, trying to figure out if this was reason enough to stop. If Steve looking lost was worrisome. 

Hung up on his decision he held onto his dick with more pressure, forced himself to hold back and not just dip right in. Like he had planned. Had wanted to. Should have done so. 

"Getting away and all that," Brock recalled. His stomach so tight from his effort to keep still, he worried for a second that he would throw up. "Does it really matter?"

"Guess not," Steve said finally. Brock's body shuddering in relief. 

"Then ask me for it," he told him again. "Please," he urged him. Needed to be inside him. Now. "I'm all left hanging here." 

"Give it to me already and fuck me then," Steve demanded. A little bossy, but good enough for Brock. All the reassurance he had hoped for. 

Pushing into Steve, once again, left Brock feeling empty with disappointment. His body barely reacting to the stretch, Steve faking satisfaction out of reflex. 

"God, you're a mess," Brock said, the words were out before he had a chance to reconsider them. This time, he was supposed to know what he was getting into. But the shock hit home all the same. Steve's body opening up like a rotten fruit, falling apart at the seams. 

By now, he should just accept that Steve was a lost cause. That he had to find stimulation elsewhere, that if he couldn't just stop fingering Steve altogether, he needed to at least stop using this much lube.

He should have listened to Steve. Should have known this wasn't going to get him off. 

With stiff fingers, he helped Steve hold his position by pressing his knees just a little further to his chest while he tested Steve's resistance with a couple of loose thrusts. But nothing about him felt amazing still, just-

-okay. 

Warm and comforting. Tranquilizing. He wrapped around Brock like a fur coat, soft and spacious. Generous but useless. Brock's dick drifting, swimming, aimlessly searching for friction. 

Maybe they should have done something else instead. 

"Such a mess," he said again, didn't know who he was talking to. What he was talking about. 

It was all of it. Steve's life and Steve's body. His own life. His own fucking feelings. They were the biggest mess. 

Helplessly, he put his lips on Steve's, looking for a distraction. Kissed him almost angrily now, although it wasn't Steve's fault. Fool me once and all that. It was their second time. 

Steve wasn't going around anymore, bending over for the next guy, but the reminder was still there, impossible to ignore, impossible to look past. He was unblemished on the outside and wrecked inside. 

"No wonder you can't find love," Brock said, then immediately asked himself why he had to insist on it. Steve had found love after all. Had found one idiot stupid enough to let it happen. To let himself fall for him. Steve had found Brock. 

Though, Brock wished once more he hadn't. 

Brock was barely adjusting his position to push deeper into Steve when his hole couldn't even hold him in. 

"Christ, Steve," he cursed. It wasn't fair to blame Steve for all of it now that nothing could be done about it anymore. But Brock had known that any preparation was going to be a waste, and it had been ridiculous of Steve to insist on it. 

But then Brock also knew, he had spent too much time fingering him, and that had been his fault. That was just the effect Steve's body had on him, making him forget what really mattered. He loved the feeling of pushing into Steve with his fingers, letting them run wild inside him. Maybe he loved it a little too much for his own good. 

Easing his cock back into Steve, though easing was hardly the right word with how open Steve was, he could barely mask his disappointment any longer. 

Steve's legs jerked a little, though it couldn't have been from the intrusion. His body pitifully victimized at its core, his rim numb, nerves endlessly tortured for cheap orgasms in the past. 

"Did anyone else ever complain?" Brock wondered although he didn't really expect Steve to answer honestly. And it didn't matter now. There was nothing to be done about it. 

"People expect me to feel something I can't. Of course they complained." Steve admitted to Brock's surprise. 

If only Steve had listened to them earlier. If only someone had kept Steve from ruining himself. 

It was a shame. A shame that no one had looked after him. That Steve hadn't let anyone. 

Being a little loose was one thing, being used to it. Like some people got after a while. After regular sex in a regular relationship. Steve was a different story altogether. He was a walking tragedy. 

"Should we stop?" Brock asked, began to wonder just how much of this Steve even felt. Unable to keep Brock inside. Unable to tell just what was going on up his ass. Unable to feel any stretch, any pleasure for himself. 

"No, why?" Steve objected immediately. Reflex. 

Brock slowed down to bring a hand between their bodies, tracing the worn out edge of Steve's rim. "Don't want you to do this for just me."

"Trust me, I don't" Steve assured him. 

"You still like it?" Brock asked. A little surprised, a little hopeful.

"That so hard to believe?" Steve asked back. Tried to get his legs away on either side of Brock. Tried to get away from him. 

"We're not done yet," Brock told him. Decided then in that moment while he held Steve in place. He didn't want to stop either. He hadn't wanted to stop when Steve had given him a way out nor did he want to stop now. 

"I'm sorry, were we still having sex?" Steve asked stupidly. Stupidly defensive. "Didn't notice over the interrogation." 

Brock knew he wasn't supposed to say what came out of his mouth next. "Maybe you just couldn't tell with how little you feel." 

He was fed up with Steve's attitude, couldn't hold back on that remark. Not that Steve deserved it. But shame was one thing, shame Brock understood, but Steve didn't need to get so tirelessly defensive all the time. 

"I still feel things," he tried to convince Brock. Couldn't just admit to the consequences of his own choices. Brock wasn't even mad about it. Steve's denial didn't come from a place of deception. Just helplessness. He needed those lies to be okay. "Just not those things that you want," Steve added in another attempt to blame Brock for all this. 

He was pathetic. And pitiful. And ugly in all ways but one. And yet the thought of him leaving, again, made Brock's chest tighten painfully. 

Steve was going to be the death of him. 

"It's not that bad," Brock relented. Begrudgingly, but not because what he said wasn't true. Fucking Steve wasn't that bad. It wasn't as if Brock wanted to stop. It was okay. It was fine. It was-, "It's just not-" 

"Enough?" Steve offered. 

"Not all the time," Brock admitted, although there was no way this was news to Steve. 

"Enough to finish this?" Steve asked. 

Maybe fucking Steve wasn't exactly hot, but it was pleasant still. Maybe it wasn't popping a bottle of champagne, but more like hot milk before bed. Maybe fucking Steve wouldn't be the best thing about having sex with him, but the most honest. 

And Brock had his ways to make Steve feel tighter, though he knew that it was merely an illusion. That before long, he truly needed to find those different ways to get Steve off. And be okay with them. 

Ways that maybe didn't involve his ass. Preferably didn't. Because the idea of tiring out Steve's mouldering hole in different, different fucked up ways, was anything but appealing. 

Nothing about Steve's hole was appealing really. Aside from how flawless it was from the outside. Tempting. Inviting. Begging to be looked at, to be touched. To be kissed. 

He could just imagine it, the tender skin against his lips, the abundance of room for his tongue. Steve's body melting all the way beneath it. The images were so intense, he could already feel him. Breathe him. Taste him on the tip of his tongue. 

"Jesus fuck, Steve," he blurted in frustration. Pulled out a once and pushed Steve's body over onto his front. Without giving it a second thought, he spread his cheeks and pressed his lips to the slack rim, groaning over how difficult Steve was, how perfect he was, his tongue sliding over his rim and slipping in just a split second later. 

Steve moaned, wild and surprised, and so did Brock, those same sentiments escaping him. 

He had no idea what he was doing, he had no idea what had possessed him, but with every passing second, he wanted more of it. More of Steve. Wanted further up, deeper, have all of him. Have all of Steve have all of him. 

He wanted to seep into his skin, every single cell, wanted to dissolve in him. His throat closed up with his need, making him choke on it, on how much he wanted Steve. All the fucking time.

There was lube everywhere, the taste better than his old bottle at least, but it wasn't enough to drown out Steve underneath it. His body that Brock hated, but couldn't stop wanting. Couldn't stop wanting to ruin just to make up for it. 

Lost time and his own crippling judgements. Other people. Mistakes. 

He forgot to breathe, didn't care, figured he could just give up on it entirely if he'd just have Steve around, at the tips of his fingers and on his tongue. 

He used a finger to hold Steve open, for better access, for his tongue to just dive back in. For himself. Just one. Just one for now. 

Then a second. The tip of a third. 

Because he could. Because he wasn't ever satisfied with just one thing, his hands so addicted to the feeling of Steve beneath them. The reassurance that he was there, that he was real, that he was living and breathing and coming apart with Brock right next to him. With him. On him. In him. His tongue tangled up in his fingers. 

Judging by his shaking body, Steve was fighting himself, too proud to just hand himself over. Struggling to just let Brock do what he needed to do, get it out of his system. As if Brock could ever hurt him. Would ever take it farther as Steve could handle. 

He wouldn't. 

He knew better than that. 

He knew better than to let himself lose control. 

Not that it would matter. Not that he could hurt Steve around there anymore. His spongy hole no place for sexual gratification. With how often he had begged Brock to fuck him by now, it should really be Steve's responsibility to look after himself. Or present Brock with a decent hole, so he wouldn't feel the urge to fill what was so easily entered. 

Okay, so maybe he was obsessed with it. Fair enough. It wasn't as if Steve wasn't obsessed with sex too. One way or another. 

It wasn't all in his head. Not all of it. Not most of it even. It wasn't. It couldn't have been. 

Steve was just fucking with his head. 

Steve who trembled still, not knowing how to respond, not knowing whether to try and get away from it all or push back. 

Brock reached out for him, for some other part of him, didn't know which one. Wished he could hold his hand, but settled for his palm on Steve's back instead. Willed him to understand. That it wasn't his fault. That it wasn't Brock's fault. Not all of it. Though it was. All of it. It was Brock's fault. 

He had been cruel and he had been wanting to hurt Steve. And he had been wanting to give Steve more than he could take. He had wanted to force him to take it all. 

The realization made him sick all at once, his body numb, his throat burning, his eyes watering. But with all the lube and spit he figured a couple of tears wouldn't make any difference. Didn't bother to hold them back. 

Didn't bother to hold himself back, when he pulled off Steve only to latch back onto his back, leaving kisses and rushed words as apologies as he made his way up. 

"Sorry," he promised. Over and over again. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." 

As if it would do some good. Heal some of the shit between them. As if it could ever be enough. 

"Come on, Steve. Don't make me feel entirely useless," he begged, as if making Steve come would absolve him of his crimes. 

Steve was breathing heavily, close, but not close enough. Brock's fingers inside him not enough. 

"Tell me," Steve pleaded in return. "Tell me what it's like." 

"Like you fucked all of Chicago and I'm the only one struggling to make you come," Brock admitted, squeezed his eyes tight as he did. Couldn't bring himself to witness their fucked up dynamic any longer. Didn't want to see Steve react to the words when he felt him just fine. The jerking hip and the shuddering moan that he suffocated with one of the pillows. "Like I'm the jerk when I'm the good guy," he added, knowing he was long past being the good guy. Although he had tried. So goddamn hard. "Like you're just what I deserve," he told him resigned. "Impossible to fuck and unable to love. And all I want. So badly," he added, swallowed down some stray tears that had no place here. Not so close to Steve's face. Giving away just how much he felt. "All the fucking time." 

And then Steve was coming. His body, under Brock, forcing out its orgasm with no room to move, nowhere to go. No place to hide. Brock demanding to feel all of it and Steve allowing it. 

Every muscle tensing, every twitching nerve and every wave of relief. Every breath held and every noise at the bottom of his chest. 

He let Steve ride it out until he went slack beneath him, his body melting into the sheets. Quietly and soft. Approachable again. Those rare moments when Brock knew he wouldn't shake off his touch. Refuse it. Loathe it. 

His hands released Steve's hips, feeling stiff and hot still. Sticky from the lube. When he looked around, he noticed the exhaustion in everything around them. In the messy crumpled sheets, and Steve's stretched out limbs. In the lifeless clothes on the floor, in the gray of the dark. In the water straining down the window, half rain and half snow. That time of year. In the gross mixture of fluids smeared all over Brock's chin and his cheeks, in the condom hanging limply off his half hard cock. 

He slipped it off, tossed it over the edge of the bed. Contemplated just giving up on the night. Glanced over his shoulder, feeling lost faced with Steve's silence. 

His fingers found the box without any conscious thought, tore the foil of a fresh one on autopilot. 

In his chest Brock discovered the distinct feeling that something had changed. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. Maybe both at once. Behind that feeling, the chance of this being the last time they would ever get to do this. He would ever get to do this. So he wanted to finish it. 

Steve's body leaned into it ever so slightly, when Brock pressed the head of his cock back into him, still open and wet, washed out and well stretched. Nothing left to help Brock find his friction. 

Just like it was supposed to be. 

After everything. Most of his fingers and his tongue. Steve's orgasm. 

Brock knew. 

But he couldn't manage to silence that part that couldn't stand the sensation. 

That couldn't stand knowing that there was still room left within Steve that Brock wasn't filling out. 

That someone else could. 

"Can I now?" he asked Steve. Needed it more than he was willing to admit. Needed it now, while Steve was relaxed, while he could handle it just fine, while it wouldn't even bother him. Wouldn't even make a difference. Except for Brock. 

Steve just shrugged. Refusing to answer. Refusing to talk to him. To let Brock know what he wanted, what he was okay with. Refusing Brock. 

"Goddamn, you're infuriating," Brock said, pulled out of Steve so he could turn him over. Look at him. 

Which Steve refused as well. Avoiding Brock's eyes. 

Instead he put his hand around his soft dick, as if he just expected Brock to go on and fuck him. Make him come a second time. 

"If you're so eager to make use of your hand, how about you help me out with a finger in a different place?" Brock commented, somewhat content when Steve at least looked at him. "You know better what you like," Brock added. Then it was his turn to shrug. 

He hadn't meant it. Not really. Had just wanted to piss Steve off. Get a reaction out of him. Any reaction. But now he couldn't deny that he wouldn't mind seeing it. Steve fingering himself while being fucked. By Brock. And Brock fucking him through it, make him feel something, anything. All of it. 

"Me?" Steve asked. As shy as he was pretending to be about this whole thing, it didn't surprise Brock when he saw a spark of interest being piqued in Steve. 

"See what it feels like for yourself. See how far you can go," Brock went on, curious now about Steve's reaction. Watching him intently as he went on. Watching for any sign of arousal. "You know, put in the extra effort," he offered. "And you know already how much I like it. Think you might too. Given how into yourself you are." 

He had added that last part just for himself, just to tease Steve a little, but by the way Steve reacted, his loss of words and his serious expression, contemplating and wrestling with himself, Brock knew he had accidentally stroked a nerve. 

"I'd go slow," Brock assured him. Wanted to see now, just how far he could take this. If Steve would find himself agreeing. Doing it. If Steve would be able to overcome his embarrassment and admit to it. To how much he liked what Brock liked. Admit to the ugly truth. 

If Steve would be man enough to slide a finger in, still shyly and after a bit of hesitant delay. And with Brock watching him. 

Brock wouldn't touch him until he tried, wanting to see it so bad now. Seeing him work to give Brock that tighter fit. Just once. Just for two seconds. 

If on rare occasions, they could do it both. One of Steve's and one of Brock's alongside his cock. Brock promising steve that they would fit, guiding him through it. Steve feeling full, just full, and thanking Brock for it. Understandably desperate. Having craved that feeling for so long. 

Brock's cock was aching now from picturing it alone, aching and eager to get back into Steve. 

"Nice and slow," Brock promised again, making his way up Steve's body so he could kiss him. Fully intended to. Then his lips moved on their own accord, choosing to whisper into Steve's ear instead. "I know you want to." 

Steve froze beneath him, stuck between what he wanted and not wanting to admit to it. Unable to say any of it out loud though. Neither _yes_ nor _no_. 

But he shook his head. 

Part of Brock was relieved, because he shouldn't have been taking it as far as he had to anyway. Part of him lost in the disappointment his fantasy had him set up for. 

"Maybe some other time then," he told him, hoped they would circle back to this eventually. Knowing now that Steve wasn't too far from wanting to try it. 

Steve didn't react to Brock's words, still dealing with his realization which surprised Brock. Sure, maybe Steve hadn't cheered when Brock had helped him out with a finger or two that first night, but he hadn't protested either. Certainly hadn't struggled to take it. To come from it. 

"Steve?" Brock tried to pull him out of his own head. Though it was somewhat pleasing to learn that Steve fucked with his own head as much as he fucked with Brock's. When Steve still didn't react, he tried it again. A little louder. 

"Steve?" 

Finally Steve startled, looking at Brock as if something terrible had just occurred to him. Something truly shameful. When it really wasn't. 

"I swear I would rim you while I fucked you if I could," Brock told him, wanted him to know they were on the same page anyway. Maybe Steve being into himself wasn't such a bad thing after all. Steve started laughing and it was the best thing Brock had heard all week, so he kept on talking hoping to sustain it. "That's how much I want you, okay? All the time. This is about me," he admitted. Had expected it to be much harder. But it was easy here with Steve. "You were right about that, you know? Are you happy now?"

Steve nodded, smile on his face for a second before it faded. "Brock?" he said gently, but couldn't face him. 

So Brock kissed him anywhere he could reach instead. "Yeah?" he asked, distracting himself with his lips on Steve's skin. 

"You're not a jerk." 

Brock grinned, his chest flooding with all kinds of cheesy things. Coupley things. Pride and happiness and love. And he wondered how they'd managed to turn this entire fucked up night around. 

"Is that a yes?" Brock asked. Pride and happiness and love trickling down into his stomach, reaching his cock in a new wave of arousal. "Can I?" 

Steve just nodded, but he still smiled. So Brock dared to challenge him one last time. 

"Then ask me for it," he said quietly.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Steve started, but was cut off by his own laughter. "Will you please do us both a favor and just fuck me with your finger and dick already?" 

* * *

For the first time, they had fucked in what felt like a deeper understanding for each other. A peaceful, sincere, impossible understanding for each other. And for the first time afterwards they talked with what felt like a deeper understanding of each other. 

Parts of Steve settling in Brock, rearranging all of him. Parts of himself that he recognized in Steve. That he wouldn't deny anymore. Similarities. 

Parts of himself that he wanted to carve out and destroy. His father's words in his own. Jack's. Everything he'd ever said about Steve, echoes of someone's opinion. Parts he wanted to cut off and lose. Substitute them with more of Steve. 

And for the first time, it didn't seem inevitable. 

That they would fall apart. Doomed to hate each other and return to their old lives. Their old selves. 

The thought kept Brock awake, left him staring at his ceiling in the dark, wondering if some of Steve's revelations came from up there. Waiting for some to fall onto him too. 

Next to him, Steve had fallen asleep a while ago. His body warm and his breaths calm. And him here being everything Brock had wanted. 

For him to stay the night. 

Now it seemed like such a ridiculous thing to wish for. So small and irrelevant. 

Brock was on to different things. Bigger things. His thoughts stuck with how he could leave Steve be. And love him all the same. And have him all the same. 

How they could do better than being a distraction. Tire each other out until they had no choice but to break apart. 

How they could make more things work than just the sex. Than a couple of texts every once in a while. 

Maybe, these days, Steven needed Brock to keep his head above water, but emergencies ended, and sooner or later Steve would wind up ashore. 

And Brock really, really wanted to be there with him then still. 

Carefully, he rolled himself over to the side to watch Steve, who was laying on his front facing Brock. Looking so different from when he was awake. Still as good, still as charming. Still as strong and smart and tempting. But vulnerable too. And tired even in his sleep. 

Steven. 

Huh. 

Brock wondered if he should wish he could take it all back. All the things he'd said. Had done. Wondering if it would have changed something. If they would have ended up here all the same. Sooner even. Or if they wouldn't have ended up here at all. 

Then he wouldn't take any of it back. And just live with it instead. Like he had to live with it now. 

He remembered Steve's hand in his in the shower. In the kitchen. His own by Steve's thigh on the bus. Remembered Steve laughing just hours before. Remembered him coming between them, so tired and wrung out that he just let it sit there, a puddle of untouch come on his stomach. Not what Steve usually did with it. 

Brock remembered the guilty conscience when he'd wiped it off him, that same towel from weeks ago. 

It was how he drifted off finally. 

Proud. 

Happy. 

And in love. 

* * *

"You didn't tell me we were going to take a fucking plane," Brock said, staring out the window and down the runway. He felt fucking exhausted. Too exhausted to be hopping on a goddamn plane of all things. He needed to put his thoughts of Steve to the side, not be reminded of them non-stop. 

Next to him, Rollins just shrugged. "What did you think out of town meant?" he asked, zipping his jacket all the way to his chin. "Pierce pays extra for the inconvenience," he said, grinning at Brock. "Trust me." 

Brock nodded. What else was he going to do anyway. His eyes narrowed in on the small plane pulling in towards the gate, wondering why they didn't board farther out on the field. He wasn't an expert, but none of this seemed to be in accordance with any corporate statutes. CEOs chartering private planes, blocking gates and hiring security personnel off the books for business meetings. 

In his heart, he knew he wasn't hired to protect negotiations. He was hired to intimidate. But there was nothing to be done about it now. 

"Let's just get it over with," he said. Grabbed his backpack from the row of seats behind them, ready to follow Jack into the depths of hell. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this is (still) the story you chose to take your mind off things or to keep you company in isolation, i'm sending you so much love!! ❤️

It wasn't dark out yet, but the sun was already low, highlighting the endless arrays of artificial light at O'Hare. The harsh spotlights towards the gates and the bright dots sidelining the runways. The softer tones that spilled from the windows, endless walkways and food courts behind them. Plane signals blinking away, overhead and down on the ground. 

"You okay?" Rollins asked after they'd stepped out, following an airfield employee in a safety vest towards the jet Pierce had chartered.

Temperature was down to the lower forties and every breath left ice cold traces in every last corner of Brock's lungs. It was going to snow soon. It was going to be winter even before December. 

"Hey," Rollins asked again, a subtle reminder that they were friends. Not that Brock had forgotten. It was just easier not to think about it. Easier, considering what he was keeping from Jack. What he was hiding. What he had been lying about for two months now. 

"Not a big fan of planes, that's all," Brock told him, thinking a half-truth would be easier to keep track of. "Confined spaces and all. Lack of control," he added, blinking into the setting sun. Knowing it was mostly the latter he struggled with. 

"It's just two hours to DC," Jack said, and Brock made a conscious note of their destination for the first time. DC. Washington. Politics. "They'll fly by." 

A side glance revealed Jack grinning to award his own joke. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe the melancholy of the city, that made Brock allow himself a small smile in return. 

If only things had never changed. And weren't bound to keep changing. If only Brock was the same he'd been all summer. The same he'd been all his life. 

It was the first time Brock saw a private jet up close. The very first time he was offered the stairs, expected to board. A friendly flight attendant was waiting for them by the door, nodding as if she'd been expecting them. Smiling as if she recognized them. 

If Brock had seen her at work before, her face had slipped his mind along with those thousands of passengers and flight crews he handled in a month. 

Jack on the other hand did seem to remember, touching her gently by the shoulder, exchanging a look of familiarity. Brock hovered at the top of the stairs for a second, looking back over to the main building as to not intrude. Or spy. 

"Pierce in yet?" he asked. His eyes were set on a plane angling in from above the airport, speaking to no one and into cold air. 

"Said he'd be five minutes late," the flight attendant informed him. Then threw Jack another look he returned. Both of them still a couple of steps down. 

Brock had to look away again. Didn't know why. He had his secrets and everyone else had theirs. Rollins had his. None of it was Brock's business. None of it was anyone's business. He turned instead, when, with just one foot on board, he heard it, coming from the door between cockpit and cabin. 

Steve. 

It was Steve's voice. Angry and pissed. Steve who he'd last heard this morning, telling him he was leaving. Patient and gentle. No sneaking out this time. No running off. Steve who he had dreamed about, at night and even in the morning after he'd left. Steve who he loved more now than he had ever hated him. Hated him still. For no fair reasons. Worldly reasons. Society's reasons. Whatever that meant. Whatever that was worth. His father's. Jack's. Those were worth something. They had to be. 

"You've got to be kidding me," Steve accused someone just out of Brock's sight, staring them down with his back to Brock. His gorgeous back. Whatever that fucking meant. Brock wasn't one for poetry. He knew what it meant only from having sex with him. From having him. 

It took another step before he could fully see who Steve was talking to, blood freezing in an instant as soon as he recognized the guy. 

"Is this a joke?" Brock blurted, his tongue twisting in stress. His words caught Steve's attention and when he turned, their eyes met for one scorching hot second. Not the good one. Tension crept over Brock from his neck down to his toes, the sheer annoyance in Steve's gaze. Shame riding down the tension's path, leaving sweat in its wake. 

The world couldn't know yet. Jack couldn't know yet. Barnes couldn't know yet. 

His mind blanked over the shock, every last thing on this planet forgotten except for Steve in his bed and what Brock had done to him. Those handful of times. The memories spread over his fingers. Forensic evidence of intimate knowledge. There was no excuse left. No part of him that could insist on calling Steve a stranger. He knew him too well instead. His body first, but more than that. Knew his language and his defenses. His lies. The honesty in his physical pleasures. His patience and his impatience. And his confessions. 

And it hit Brock in that moment, with a handful of feet from Steve, with miles of prejudice forgotten, that between roots of other people's opinions he was actually really fucking proud. 

Really fucking proud of fucking Steve fucking Rogers. 

And that more than anything, he wished they were home now. In his apartment. Wrapped up in sheets that reeked of sex. Steve's come all over his back. They were supposed to be at it again. He was supposed to hear Steve's laughter. His happiness. His contentment. 

Not his anger. 

"Cap," Rollins said next to Brock. Grounding him forcefully. 

_'It can only be us.' _

"Cap?" Brock repeated mindlessly. Irritated. Lips moving without permission. Last night coming back to him like a faded dream. He's heard it before. In passing. Cabin crews or pilots. When it was just them, Jack used other words for Steve. Words that weren't okay anymore. That had never been. Words Brock had used so casually himself. Everything else almost unfamiliar to his ear. More names. None of them Steve's. 

_'Do you still want me to stay over?' _

Brock was still sorting through all his shit when Steve gave him one last look, then reached for the door. 

"I can't do this right now," he said, slamming it shut with too much force, the bang echoing in Brock's spine. He hadn't flinched though. He was trained not to flinch. 

"Does Pierce reimburse for this too?" he asked dryly instead. He didn't care that Steve had just publicly shut a door in his face. He was relieved. Because no part of him wanted to deal with James fucking Barnes today. Not today, not ever. 

And whatever Barnes had done to piss Steve off, it wasn't Brock's business either. And he didn't need another reason to stay away. To not get involved. He was better off not knowing. 

Next to him, Jack laughed at his question. And it was nice. It was nice knowing that things weren't too awkward between them. That they could still crack jokes and that maybe keeping some things private weren't a surefire way to break a friendship. And neither were wandering hands from intoxicated brains. Surreal moments that were long blurring into imaginations. Maybe none of it had happened. 

And yet, part of him wished that it was Steve laughing instead. 

They settled in the front, Jack gesturing towards the seats that were apparently reserved for personnel. Just like in any other plane, the back of the jet was separated. But instead of the economy section there was just expensive interior behind the curtain. Small tables on each side, comfortable chairs that looked better than Brock's couch had even when it was new. Something that looked like a bar and another desk with a laptop on top. 

When Pierce boarded he was still on the phone, barely nodding at Jack by the aisle but with no glance to spare for Brock by the window. He just rushed past them, a man in a suit and a woman in a pencil skirt and high heels following him. 

Brock couldn't help but shake his head at the sight, once more feeling bad for what women had to endure in the name of professionalism. 

Two hours, he reminded himself when the engines were turned on. Two hours with Steve in command. Smooth sailing his ass.

At the thought, Brock turned, looked Rollins over for a second who was squirming to find a comfortable position before takeoff. 

"Does this happen often?" he asked quietly. "Extra hours out of town? Running into Barnes and Rogers?" 

Either alone was bad enough. Both of them together and this started to look like a cursed mission now.

Jack seemed startled by the question at first, then sank into his seat somewhat self-congratulating with how he'd arranged long legs and vulnerable knees. "What do you mean?" he asked back, eyebrows raised. "We run into them all the time at security checks."

"I mean, is everyone at the airport doing extra shifts for Pierce?" Brock clarified, kept his voice low at the mention of their CEO's name. 

"Barnes is on most flights," Jack said, only glanced at Brock every once in a while. "Pierce usually travels alone. Without security. I've only been once."

Brock could tell he felt guilty for his own secrets. Though they would hardly qualify as that. After all, Jack had told him weeks ago. Had promised Brock the money would be worth it. 

"Is that how you ended up with the invite to Falcon's party?" Brock guessed, tracing it all back to that one fucking night. "'Cause you two hit it off?"

"We didn't hit it off," Jack quoted him back. Looking more bored than offended. "But yeah, that's when he invited me." 

"And Steve?" Brock pressed without giving it a second thought. Regretting it as soon as he saw the grin spreading over Jack's face. "Rogers," Brock corrected himself as if it would make a goddamn difference. 

"Are you worried whether or not he's going to try scoring with you again?" Rollins asked, glancing towards the cockpit. "Think he's still reeling from that rejection?" 

"Shut up," Brock said out of reflex. 

"Maybe you want him to," Jack answered swiftly and cruelly. 

"He just doesn't seem to be the type to need work on the side," Brock tried, though it hardly felt convincing. 

"Co-pilot bailed last minute," Jack explained. "And Pierce requested America's golden boy himself." 

"Of course," Brock scoffed, didn't even need to fake his annoyance. It earned him more laughter from Jack's side. 

"It's his world, ain't it?" Jack said. "And we're all just living in it." 

Brock shrugged. Couldn't figure out if Rollins was referring to Pierce or to Steve. Couldn't quite place the sentiment in either way. "Is it?" he asked, trying to plant some doubt in his own head. 

* * *

For most of the flight, Brock stared out the window, getting lost in his own thoughts as the sky darkened with every passing minute. 

Jack was almost stubbornly quiet beside him, occasionally rearranging his limbs or rubbing his forehead as if he was trying to get rid of a headache. 

There were no announcements either, no word from the cockpit, nothing from Steve. The meeting in the back was drowned out by the sound of the engines and after the first hour had passed Brock was fighting off yawns and heavy lids. 

He wanted to sleep. Catch up on those hours he had spent lying awake. Catch up on some rest he needed badly. His body was sore from fucking Steve. He was getting old. Pathetically so.   
And although he wasn't supposed to think that far ahead, he gave himself about five years until he was unable to keep up with Steve, until he had to let him go anyway. 

He'd nodded off for one blissful second when the jet dropped beneath the clouds and he was shaken awake as the wings got caught in some bumpy winds. 

He cursed, internally blaming Barnes for their harsh descension. So what if he was partial to Steve's abilities. It wasn't anyone's business. 

There was a car waiting on the field, a black SUV with tinted windows, and Rollins ushered him towards it immediately. There was no moment to look back, trying to catch a glimpse of Steve. Brock could almost convince himself he hadn't been there in the first place. No Steve in dark jeans for a change. In a light blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up. Clean but not on-the-job-clean. Not perfect. Not all the way. 

Brock spent the entire drive staring at the back of Pierce's neck. At the accurately cut line of gray-ish red hair over a line of aged skin above a white collar. Trying to convince himself that they weren't going to be involved in something illegal. 

He synced his breaths to Jack's next to him, knowing it would calm himself down. They were on a business trip. Nothing irregular about a business trip. About a meeting. They'd be fine. 

"I don't want to hear a single word from you," Pierce said dismissively. If it hadn't been for Jack's nod, Brock wouldn't have realized it was them he was speaking to. "Unless it's me opening the door, you don't let anyone leave the room. Understood?" 

"Understood," Jack said, nodding again. 

Brock tried to get something out, some affirmative grunt in favor of nothing, but his throat wouldn't allow it, closed up like a fourth grader asked to read out loud in class. 

Pierce didn't seem bothered by any of it. Somehow content assuming Jack spoke for the both of them. Overall it seemed as if Pierce was content pretending Brock wasn't there at all. Or just as an extension of Jack's force. Another muscle to use for his purposes. Maybe he doubted that Brock spoke English at all. Rumlow was a name open to interpretation and most guys working the ground at O'Hare grew up speaking two or three other languages before they learned a word English. 

None of it surprised Brock. And allowed himself to relax a little. If he wasn't going to be talked to, there was little he could do wrong. 

He was used to taking orders. Used to keeping silent. To leave decisions to men in higher positions. Bosses, generals, politicians. Those men his father put his faith in. Faith and blind trust. 

"You can leave your bags in the car," Pierce said as if it was an act of kindness. Brock guessed he took offense with the washed out backpacks instead. Didn't want anyone getting a false impression. A reminder between black shoes and black jeans that they were just regular men doing a job. Between black sweater jackets over more white shirts. The only one Brock owned. The one he last wore when he first went home with Steve. 

The night they had left together. To fuck each other. He wanted to yell it out loud now. Tell Pierce and Jack exactly what they'd done then. And every second they'd done it since. And that he was in love with Steve. With Pierce's golden boy. And that Steve had stayed. That Steve liked him back. 

But he couldn't. Couldn't even look at them. Could only stare straight ahead, grinding his teeth to keep it together. 

Maybe no one would care. 

He felt Jack's eyes on him long before he acknowledged it, long before he met his gaze for a split second. It didn't go unnoticed that he was tense. But there was no way Rollins could address it while they were in the car. It was Brock's lucky day. 

In an attempt to loosen up, Brock exhaled slowly and tried to relax his shoulders. Nothing was going to happen. There was no reason to get all worked up over nothing. By this time tomorrow he'd be home. Be with Steve if he played his cards right. Sending him off, properly, into another week of long hauls and jet lag. He tried to put himself there mentally for the rest of the ride. 

Half an hour later the car pulled up in front of an office building that looked deserted. Lights low at reception, Pierce's entourage leading them straight to the elevators. 

"Just two minutes," Jack murmured when he came to stand next to Brock. "Confined spaces and all. Lack of control." 

It made Brock smile to himself.

The elevator doors were sliding open again in less than one. Pierce turned to give Jack another nod before he and the other two started moving down the hall and disappeared into the one office that was still lit. Then the door clicked shut behind them, leaving Jack and Brock in silence by themselves. 

He hadn't had time for a real glance. All Brock had managed to make out inside were maybe five or more people in suits. 

"So what is this?" Brock asked as quietly as humanly possible. Quietly but casually. Trying to hide that the secrecy didn't sit well with him. "Some kind of lobbying or something?" 

"Something like that," Jack said, kept his voice down too. Spoke so low that Brock worried he wouldn't be able to catch all of his words. "I think," he added, his tone giving away his doubts. 

"We're not intimidating, I don't know, members of congress, right?" Brock asked, eyes darting everywhere in fear that they weren't alone. "Elected officials? Senators?" 

Jack shrugged. "Don't think so," he added in a whisper. Unconvincingly so. Great. Fucking fantastic. 

On a painful exhale, Brock let his body slump against the wall behind him. He was fed up with his choices lately, fed up with his own short-sightedness. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then soothed his forehead with his fingers. Hopefully, this night, this weekend would pass quietly and his carelessness wasn't going to turn on him. 

With his head down, he started tracking Jack's movement. The steps up and down past the door. His boots coming to a halt in front of him. The wide familiar stance. His arms crossed. Brock didn't need to check to know. 

Silence all around them still. Nothing but Brock's own harsh breaths, the sound of Jack's fingernails on worn out jeans, scratching a spot on his thigh. Nothing from behind that closed door. 

They were stranded here in DC. Jack and him. With Steve. With Barnes. Trapped between past and present. Every second an opportunity to ruin a future he wasn't going to have anyway. His love life was cursed. He was fucked in all ways but one. Steve holding out for reasons Brock couldn't figure out. 

Almost familiar by now, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks and cold sweat on the back of his neck. Felt nerves trembling in the fingers he forced still, tightening the grip around the cuffs of his sweater. He couldn't afford this panic. He was trained to overcome it. Swallow it down. Compartmentalize it. Put it aside to be dealt with later. 

Or never. 

_'I can't do this right now.'_

Steve's voice echoed in Brock's head. No, neither of them could do this right now. 

"So what's the plan?" he asked Rollins to distract himself. "We just stand here?" 

At that, the look on Jack's face changed from bored to hesitant. To guarded and closed off just a second later. He considered Brock for a long moment afterwards. Moved towards him. 

Brock watched him, consciously witnessing every step. Watched him stupidly disengaged though. In dangerous disbelief. 

He wasn't oblivious. He wasn't. He knew better. He knew, but he didn't want to know. He wanted to be naive. 

"We could talk," Jack offered, chin dipped down when he looked at Brock. Trying to make himself smaller while trying to make some eye contact. 

"Talk?" Brock echoed, committed to ignore the discomfort of their proximity. "You know I don't do support groups," he added. Grinned, then shook his head. Tried to laugh it off, but he couldn't even meet Rollins's eyes. They knew each other way too well than to be fooled by fake smiles. By false naivety. 

"Cut the crap," Rollins said in a tone that Brock rarely heard outside of work. Then a hand came up to rest against the wall at the side of Brock's head. 

Startled by the harsh reply, Brock finally met his gaze. Remembered his training and squared his shoulders. 

"What's with you these days?" Rollins asked, almost forcing Brock's eyes back down with how he saw right through him. 

"Nothing," Brock lied, keeping his eyes up. They were close enough to kiss by now. 

"You've been different since you went to see your folks," Rollins said. He sounded almost defeated. 

"Different how?" Brock asked, trying to replay all those weeks in his head. Replay them but skip over his days with Steve. Those memories wouldn't help him now. Would only make things worse. 

"Stressed out," Rollins just said. "Sadder somehow," he added, causing Brock to scoff out of reflex while his cheeks lit up involuntarily. 

He needed to get away. Get away from this conversation, that hallway. Away from that godforsaken side job and this city. 

"Distant," Jack went on, still close. He was way too fucking close for Brock's taste. "Distancing," he tried again and Brock squeezed his eyes tight, refusing to hear what was said behind those words. 

"You're starting to sound a little needy there, buddy," he warned. His voice was low and his teeth were closed and he sounded like someone else. 

"Is that really what you think?" Rollins just asked. Nothing scarier than a man beyond shame. Jack. Steve. Brock. They were all too far gone. "'Cause I think you don't care," Rollins went on. He was too fucking close. "And I don't know if I care." 

Brock turned his head, a reflex he couldn't fight fast enough. He didn't like feeling cornered. It didn't matter if it was Steve or if it was Jack. He didn't like showing it either. But now he had, swallowing as he stared past Jack's wrist. 

"Come on," he said, too quiet to convince either of them of what he couldn't say. "You know better than to fuck on the job." 

A million ways. There were a million ways to tell someone off. And Brock couldn't even manage to pick one. Instead he'd just made everything ten times worse. 

He knew. Could sense it in the silence. In Jack's stance and his breath. In and out. For a second. Two. Three. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Rollins asked, stepped back. Bringing some distance between them. Enough for Brock to get his hands to his face, rub off all his messy thoughts. He needed to concentrate. 

"Isn't that what you want?" Brock asked, finally daring to look back up. "Since that night out? In the club?" 

"Just shut up," Jack told him immediately. 

"You asked me what was wrong," Brock said, shook his hesitation off and adjusted himself. Managed to stand a little taller. "There you go," he added. Determined to take this out on him. "I've tried to ignore it, yet here we are." 

"You've been stressed all this time because we got drunk one night?" Jack asked, eyed him up. Then leaned back against the wall almost arrogantly. Reminding Brock of someone else. "You sure there isn't more to it? Something else? Someone?"

"Are you jealous?" Brock asked, tried his best to keep his voice down. "Is that it?" he pushed. Willing to push it too far. "You wanna know what I think?" he wondered, but didn't give Jack a chance to reply. "I think you're projecting all your stress onto me." 

"I know what this is," Rollins informed him. Chest out and smirking. "You think you're suddenly irresistible just because you caught Captain America's eyes for one night." 

Asshole. 

Brock huffed, almost choked on his own spit. "Who hasn't," he scoffed. Felt the weight of his evasion tearing his heart immediately after. Hadn't he sworn to lay it off? 

"I worry about you, man," Jack tried again. "That's what friends do." 

Absently, Brock shook his head. "And the thing at the club?" 

Jack shrugged. Threw a hand up dismissively. "We were all having fun, no? Doesn't have to mean anything." 

Brock watched him for a moment, burying his teeth in his bottom lip. Then he nodded, flashes of his own behavior reminding him that he wasn't in a position to judge. 

"You know it's been hell at work since-," Brock offered, but didn't want to elaborate. 

"Someone else giving you grief?" Jack asked. "Or does that kid need to be sent another message." 

"No," Brock said, but he didn't particularly care if someone else would get beaten up for his lie. There were a couple of dicks on his list who deserved it. "No, it's me. I'm fucking paranoid. I'm either worried to be called another slur or worried I'd run into him again." 

"Who?" Jack asked, not quite catching on. 

"Rogers," Brock admitted. 

"Why?" Jack pressed. 

For a split second Brock contemplated coming clean. Contemplated laying it all out. He could pass it off as momentary insanity. As lack of judgement. Steve's looks that were just too fucking tempting. He could pass it off for curiosity. Tell Jack he'd fucked Steve for laughs. Maybe Rollins wouldn't care. Maybe he'd make fun of him for a while. Forget about it after a month. By next year everything could be back to normal. If he never saw Steve again. Never fucked him again. Never slept with him again. Never have him over. 

It wasn't an option. 

"He's still pissed that I passed on him," Brock said instead. "You saw how he behaved on the plane," he went on, fighting his guilty conscience to the edge. "It's fucking annoying. Making a scene like that. As if we fucking broke up or something." 

"I should have told you Pierce asked for him," Jack told him apologetically. "I didn't think you cared. If anything I thought he'd be embarrassed. Not you." 

"It's fine," Brock said, trailing towards the free spot by the opposite wall. His shoulder resting against Jack's. "I should have said something." 

"I can tell him to back off," Jack offered and Brock's stomach turned. 

"I got this," Brock just said. He wouldn't mind punching himself for it. Next to him, Rollins nodded and Brock could feel the relief in his shoulders. "Thank you," Brock added quietly. "For, you know, for getting me in on the job. And for having my back." 

As they stared ahead, watching the door they were supposed to keep an eye on, Jack nodded again. 

They stood like that for a long while. Some unspoken agreement settling between them. This wasn't the time. For things to become more complicated. This wasn't the time to ask why. To ask what was going on. On all accounts. Brock tried to focus on the ongoing meeting hidden from them. And when that didn't work, he distracted himself from what he'd said with thoughts of Steve. He'd rather go down this rabbit hole than wonder why he couldn't turn Rollins down. Why he couldn't tell him off. Why he didn't mind his jealousy if only it didn't come with his questions. Why he felt guilty when nothing had happened. He was still with Steve and Steve only. 

An hour passed and Brock's arm was threatening to fall asleep where he had it tucked behind him. He shook it off, back of his hand brushing against Jack's thigh. An accident. Jack didn't move. 

The second hour went by and Jack started getting fidgety. Tapping out a rhythm with his fingers or his head against the wall. That's how bored he was. They were. But Brock was trained to be still. To not let it show. He didn't know what Rollins had done before airport security. They must have talked about it before. It must have slipped Brock's mind. He was a shitty friend. 

Rollins had the body of a soldier. The body of a runner and a fighter. He was so fucking tall it was annoying. He had some scars but their origin wasn't public knowledge. It wasn't like Barnes's accident that had ended up in the papers. Brock didn't even know if it was an accident. If Rollins had crashed his bike as a kid. Maybe it was a bar fight. Or a drunken fall. He didn't know if it was glass that had cut through his skin, if it was some sharp edge of broken wood, or the edge of a stainless steel knife. 

Maybe he was a good friend for never asking. For not thinking about his face too much. Friends didn't do that. 

Was Rollins hot? Sure. Had he noticed on his first day of work? Obviously. Had it come up ever since? Never. 

Because they were friends. 

And Brock had been busy trying to build a life. 

Had been busy focusing on keeping a job. 

Had been busy throwing it all away by falling head over heels. 

In love. 

With Steve.

That much was still true. 

Rollins and Steve had never fucked. Funny how that was explicitly established in one of their many lunch break conversations. Because Jack was smart. That's what he'd said. 

Brock wasn't. 

Then the door knob finally turned. Within a second both of them stood straight and two feet apart, ready to mindlessly jump whoever walked out the door. Unless it was Pierce. 

Brock's body was drenched in adrenaline. This wasn't different from his work at the airport. He wasn't afraid. He knew he was about to cross a line, but he still wasn't afraid. He knew he was possibly just seconds away from breaking multiple laws. With no idea what for. But he wasn't afraid. 

Luckily, it was Pierce appearing in his sight and although Brock felt the relief, he was trained not to show it. So he nodded. Remained silent. Maybe he was better off letting Jack do all the talking. 

"There's a car parking downstairs," Pierce said, looking only at Brock. He was calm, but there was something tense beneath his words. "Inside is an envelope and an address. I want you to deliver the envelope." He held out a set of keys. "In person, of course," Pierce added. "You got that?"

Brock knew better than to hesitate, nodded and took the key without waiting for more information. He threw Rollins a glance, but Pierce was already on him.

"You stay here," he told him, something changing in his expression. "You're coming with me." 

Jack nodded too, and Brock guessed they were boh sharing the same thought: Money. This was worth about two weeks of night shifts at O'Hare. This was paying rent. Was paying phone bills and debts. 

"Once you've delivered the envelope you come straight back here and pick him up at the back," Pierce instructed Brock. "Then you head to the hotel. Park the car in the garage, leave the keys inside. Got that too?"

"Yes, sir," Brock said, finally finding his voice. Pierce seemed pleased enough. 

"Then get the fuck out of here," he added and turned to face Jack. 

Brock scrambled to get moving, couldn't catch a single word of what Pierce told Jack then. Both of them out of earshot within the next second. He skipped the elevator, took the stairs instead, thinking he could work off some of that adrenaline. Get his scattering bursting body to feel centered again. 

One step blurred into the next under the yellow emergency light of the stairwell and before he knew it, he was standing breathlessly in the darkness of the lobby again. The streetlights guided him outside to the curb. There were four cars lined up, all empty and abandoned. The car that had taken them here was nowhere to be seen. 

Taking a steadying breath he pressed the remote with his thumb, immediately hurrying towards the car that lit up. 

It wasn't too different from the one that had dropped them off, just slightly smaller. Black. Expensive. Anonymous. Intimidating. 

Out of reflex, he leaned over to the passenger side, checked the glove department for address and envelope but came up empty. He twisted his body around to get a better look at the backseat.

Nothing. 

"Fuck," Brock mumbled, pulled himself back into the driver's seat. His instinct told him he should have pulled out into traffic by now. But he couldn't. Not with no idea where to go. He didn't want to get out again to check the back, search an unknown vehicle that wasn't his for everyone to see. He couldn't help the desperate prayer he sent out as he slipped his hands into the department overhead, freezing for a split second when his fingers touched paper. 

"Thank God," he breathed, fumbling to get it down. There was no address though, not a single word written on the envelope no matter how often and how frantically Brock turned it around between shaking fingers. 

He had his hands up again, frisking every inch of the interior when it finally clicked and he froze again for a second to congratulate himself on his stupidity. He huffed, then laughed, letting his arms drop. 

His fingers were still trembling and he held his breath when he turned the key. He couldn't afford to be wrong. He couldn't afford to waste any more time. 

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait longer than a second until the automatic voice from the onboard navigation gave its first instruction and Brock allowed himself to exhale. 

Knowing shit about DC, he was forced to rely on the system and with his license in his backpack in the other SUV and this car being void of any other paperwork aside from that envelope, he couldn't provide any ID nor registration. Meaning, he couldn't afford to make so much as a wrong turn. Couldn't afford to be pulled over. 

He shouldn't have taken this job.

But it was too late now and any self-scolding was useless. It wasn't just him in this mess though. There was Jack back with Pierce. There was Steve who had piloted them here. Steve and Barnes. 

He really shouldn't have taken this job. 

The streets were quiet, but not too quiet as to raise suspicion. Brock tried to focus on the directions and staying below the speed limit. Every minute felt too long now, but he couldn't risk making up for lost time. If only he hadn't allowed for panic to occupy his brain. 

He was sweating, but he forced himself to ignore it. Forced his muscles to relax instead. He'd left Downtown DC long behind, was instead driving deeper into suburban neighborhoods. He was paying more attention to the navigation system than his surroundings and had to hit the brakes hard when he was let into a gated driveway. 

"Shit," he cursed, staring out onto the sealed road in front of him. There was a camera, but no com system. He had no idea what he was going to say anyway. How he was going to explain who he was and what he was doing here. Pierce hadn't told him whether he was allowed to mention his name or not. Whether he was going to punish anyone who did. 

Brock was still contemplating his options when the gate suddenly came to life, pulled apart and parted almost silently. 

So someone was expecting him. Good. That made things easier. 

Brock pulled through slowly, following the driveway to a modern family home, swing set and minivan included. Breaching the sanctuary made him want to throw up. He didn't care if all that safety had been an illusion from the start. He didn't belong here. And he realized that that was precisely why he was sent here. Chicago's trash disrupting the lives of the Washington's elite. But he didn't look half as cheap as Pierce wanted him to feel. Not tonight. 

The light by the front door came on even before Brock had brought the car to a halt. On a hunch, he waited, didn't bother to turn the engine off. 

He didn't know who he'd expected to approach the vehicle, certainly not at this time, so he couldn't really claim to be surprised when a middle aged woman in leggings and a long cardigan hurried towards him with bare feet. 

Brock let the window roll down, preparing himself for the same pleasantries he would have put out if he had been assigned to search her bag at the airport. 

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" she just said before he even had a chance to do as much as force a nod. She was obviously not in the mood for conversation. 

Wordlessly, he reached for the envelope and handed it to her. She took it just as quickly and just as quietly, already rushing back inside. Eager not to be seen with him for too long. Though Brock couldn't imagine anyone watching. 

He was past the gate and out on the street before he noticed his heart racing borderline painfully. But he'd gotten the job done. Almost. 

Because he couldn't fucking remember a single turn or landmark that had gotten him here, he drove for another two minutes until he felt it was safe enough for him to pull up at the side. He fumbled with the system for a while, trying to get that goddamn thing to direct him back to the office building he came from. 

His hand was shaking and although the road lay as quiet as a graveyard he checked the mirror and his surroundings compulsively for any police car or a suspicious neighbor. 

Once back on track, he wished for nothing more than to be home. He knew he needed his focus on the traffic and not with cursing his past choices. Again. 

He promised himself to make better ones in the future though, promised himself to keep his money tight, to run on a better budget. He could get by without jobs like this. He had in the past. He could do it again. Focus on his job in security. Focus on Crossbones. Focus on Steve. 

Finding the office building turned out to be less of a problem, finding the fucking back entrance turned out to be a pain in the ass instead. Brock ended up circling the block three times before he finally managed to get it right. 

Rollins was already waiting for him, slumped down on the curb, both their backpacks between his legs. The one thing Brock managed to register. Somehow, the thought of his license, the thought of his phone, the thought of the T-shirt he'd packed, of Steve in the hotel, all of them came to him before any thought of Jack was able to squeeze through. 

Brock was too tired to judge himself over more evidence of him being a shitty friend. Now that the stress slowly receded, exhaustion took over. Every single muscle made itself known. He was getting old. None of the missions on his tours made him feel like this. 

He'd barely stopped the car, when Rollins opened the door and slid inside, dumping the backpacks in the back. 

"You good?" he asked, watching Brock from the side. 

A nod had to do because Brock wasn't quite trusting his voice yet to sound convincing. Instead, he gave himself a couple of seconds, exiting the parking garage and what must have been some kind of staff entrance. 

"You?" he asked them, glancing over for the first time. Rollins looked the same as he'd left him. Somehow that felt surprising. Although Brock couldn't really phrase what he had expected. Some, any evidence really of what had happened in the meantime. 

"Yeah," Rollins said, pushing his hair back and rearranging his body just like he'd done on the plane. Fitting his legs more comfortably. 

"Do you know where we're heading?" Brock asked, gesturing towards the traffic out on the street. 

"Yeah, hold on," Rollins said, pushing his hips up, to get to the back pocket of his pants. "I've got the hotel address right here." He pulled out a paper and unfolded a sheet that definitely had more info on it than just an address. "It's right around the corner," he announced, showing Brock a printed street map. 

For a second Brock wondered if there was a reason for the map they were given when they had a perfectly fine navigation system on board. If he hadn't been supposed to use it to find his way back. If it was another mistake. Or if the hotel was the only destination that wasn't supposed to show up in its history. Though he was certain the car's journey could be tracked back at any time through modern technology anyway. If someone wanted to. Someone like cops and DAs. 

"Just turn left over there," Rollins told him. Pointed towards a bigger street. There were no bruises on his hands. No blood. Brock couldn't help but notice. What he feared had happened, didn't. Maybe all Jack had to do once Brock had left was stand in the hallway for another hour. Maybe he didn't have to intimidate anyone with physical force. 

Brock followed his instructions in silence. This wasn't the time to talk either. The time to ask questions. 

Just like he had been told, Brock left the keys in the car when they got out, hovering about until the security system kicked in and locked the car itself. Jack waited with him patiently, not commenting on his paranoia. No one had told them to make sure the car couldn't be stolen. There was a good chance the people waiting to collect it were already watching, waiting for them to get out of the picture. But Brock didn't have it in him to risk it. 

They checked in without any hold-ups, Pierce being too cheap to get them separate rooms. It didn't matter to Brock as long as the money it saved showed up on his paycheck. He had his doubts about it though.

Jack headed for the bathroom immediately and Brock put his worries about him aside for now. Instead he waited until he heard the shower, then worked the zipper of his backpack to the other side while he stumbled to one of the beds, desperate to get to his phone. There was no way in hell that Steve didn't have questions about seeing him earlier. About him being here. There was no way he hadn't texted. And he was probably pissed by now that Brock hadn't replied. 

For a second, he believed his battery was out with how dead his phone looked in his hand. But when he slid a thumb over the power button it came to life as easy as ever, asking him to unlock. No messages, no missed calls. 

Brock watched the empty screen for a while, a faint pain spreading from his chest to his stomach. He still opened the messenger app just to make sure it hadn't crashed and wasn't showing notifications. But the latest message in his chat with Steve was his own. 

Absently, Brock nodded. Acknowledging his mistake. His misconception. False hopes. Steve didn't care. Steve fucking Rogers didn't care about whatever the fuck Brock was up to when he wasn't fucking him. Fuck. 

"Something wrong?" Rollins asked, standing in the bathroom door. Barefoot in his boxers. His hair was wet, dripping down onto a black T-shirt. Brock hadn't noticed the minutes pass. 

He shook his head. Could feel Jack's eyes on him despite it. 

"Are we done?" Brock asked then, tossing his phone to the side. "Is the job done?" 

"Yeah," Jack said. Nodded. "Think that's it." He walked over to the other bed and sat down opposite of Brock. 

"What happened?" Brock wondered, although he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. 

"What do you mean?" Rollins asked all innocently. Leaning back on his elbows. 

"What was all that about?" Brock tried again. "The meeting? The envelope?" To give his fingers something to do he started to unlace his shoes. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Nothing," Rollins shrugged. 

"Nothing?" Brock echoed. Then decided that today he had to be honest about one thing at least. So he tried to give voice to his worries. "Did you hurt someone?"

Jack looked at him for a bit, then shook his head. 

"Did I hurt someone?" Brock asked on a hunch. "With whatever was in that envelope?" 

"I don't know," Jack just said. Somehow the honesty was almost comforting. "And neither do you. And there's no way to find out, okay? Pierce doesn't discuss his business. Not with us." 

"I know," Brock assured him, propped his feet up against the edge of Jack's bed. 

"Relax," Rollins told him. Grinned. "You just made over two week's pay in just a couple of hours. Think that's worth celebrating a little."

Brock acknowledged the suggestion with a half-hearted snort. But he wasn't in the mood to celebrate. 

"You want me to get some beers?" Jack wondered. "Call Rogers? So you can take the edge off?" He was laughing at the image, but Brock felt like throwing up again. 

"Doubt he's available," Brock muttered and threw his phone another angry look. 

"You're right," Jack agreed. "Probably out to get some," he added nonchalantly, rolling his hips while he was at it. "Fucking himself through every city. America's ass indeed." 

"Stop," Brock said before he had even registered the impulse to defend Steve. To argue on his behalf. 

"Stop what?" Rollins asked, scrambling upright, checking himself over, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. 

"What you're saying," Brock added, much quieter. 

At that Rollins grinned again. "Why?" 

"You know why," Brock just said, so goddamn tired of it all. 

"You fucked him, didn't you?" Rollins asked, suddenly more serious. Brock got the feeling he would have sounded less worried asking Brock if he'd killed a man. "At Wilson's party," Rollins went on. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"You stood me up," Brock reminded him. 

"So it's my fault you fucked Captain America?" Rollins scoffed as Brock realized his pathetic attempts to find excuses. He didn't know why he was being so defensive. He had thought himself better than that by now. Over it by now. "I told you I had to work," Rollins added. Took the bait after all. 

"No," Brock just said. Surprising himself by abandoning being defensive about it. Giving into his exhaustion. The drama surrounding Steve was starting to annoy him more than it worried him. And he wanted to be done with it. "No one's at fault. Nothing happened. Two adults having responsible sex. Nothing wrong with that." 

Rollins laughed although Brock hadn't aimed for funny. Had aimed for closure instead. "And yet you lied about it," Rollins reminded him. 

"Because you hate him," Brock offered in return. 

"So do you," Rollins retorted. "Last I heard." 

"You can hate a man and fuck him too," Brock just said, let himself fall back until his shoulders hit the mattress. He did hate Steve. And he loved him too. He wanted to fuck him and hold his goddamn hand on the bus. 

Rollins did it alike, spread his body out on his bed, nudging the toes of his one foot underneath Brock's ankle. 

"Wanna talk about it?" Jack asked, his voice quiet and his tone tired. When Brock glanced over he saw that he had his eyes closed. 

"What's there to talk about?" Brock wondered, well aware that he was still keeping the rest of the story to himself. He didn't move his feet from Jack's bed. 

"Did you like it?" Rollins asked. His choice of words implying that sex with Steve wasn't like sex with anybody else. And maybe it wasn't. Maybe Brock was ruined for anybody else now. Ruined worse than Steve could ever be. 

"Are you jealous?" Brock asked again. Admittedly, sounding a little too serious.

Next to him, on the other bed, Jack stayed quiet and Brock listened to him breathe. Closed his eyes and listened. Listened until he fell asleep. 

He was disoriented when he woke up. The hotel room was lit by their bedside lamps and it was still dark outside. Jack had managed to roll himself half into his sheets, shoulders and hips covered while his feet were still tucked under Brock's. 

There was no way to tell how much time had passed and Brock felt stiff and gross, wishing he'd taken a shower earlier too. He pushed himself fully onto his own bed, his knees aching from the pressure they'd endured while bridging between the two mattresses. 

He groaned, startled by his own voice, but next to him Jack couldn't be disturbed. It made Brock wonder for a second if whatever Pierce had asked of him hadn't involved more physical strain than he'd let on. 

On reflex, his hand moved out, eager to find his phone. Though there was some light around, his eyes squinted once he unlocked the screen only to widen in surprise when he saw he had a missed call. 

From Steve. 

And before he knew it he was wide awake and sitting upright, finger hovering over the call back suggestion, eyes focused on the info that Steve had hung up only twenty-three minutes ago. It was only then that he glanced to the top of the display, checking the time. It was just after three in the morning. 

He wasn't naive. He could think of a thousand reasons why Steve would call him in the middle of the night, each sending him spiralling between panic and arousal. 

Unsurprisingly, he couldn't remember when exactly he and Jack had gotten here, having been preoccupied with thoughts of what they'd just done. With thoughts of Steve on top of that. The entire evening, the entire day actually, had merged into one big pile of stress that he had simply ached to forget. They'd left Chicago before six, but it all blurred from there. And suddenly, three in the morning had lost any meaning to him. 

Quietly, he moved off his bed and into the bathroom closing and locking the door behind him. Then he dialed Steve's number. 

The line rang twice before his call was rejected and Brock was sent to voicemail instead. He lowered the phone from his ear to check the screen, making sure the anger inside his chest wasn't born out of another misunderstanding. 

He hadn't hung up yet on the automatic announcement of Steve's inbox when a notification popped up at the top. 

From Steven 3:11AM  
Can you meet me outside for a second?

It took Brock's brain a moment to make sense of the message when another text arrived.

From Steven 3:11AM  
Outside in the hallway? 

Brock needed another moment to put it all together, feeling oddly paranoid for no reason. He'd confirmed to Steve that he was awake by calling, but he couldn't shake a feeling of being watched. The feeling that Steve somehow knew exactly the room he was staying at, was already keeping an eye on the door. He felt caught, though he didn't do anything wrong. Having friends wasn't a crime. Worrying about them wasn't a crime. Wanting them around wasn't either. Or wanting them to want you around in return. 

There was nothing wrong with falling asleep after a long and somewhat shitty day. It wasn't the same as falling asleep after sex. A hotel room wasn't the same as Steve's bed. 

And yet part of Brock was beginning to panic over facing Steve. 

To Steven 3:13AM  
i'll be right out. 

If he were to be honest, he would have rather asked Steve to give him five minutes. Just for the sake of waking up properly. Of getting his head right. His goddamn feelings. 

But he didn't want to give the impression that he had something to hide. That he had to get dressed or untangle himself. Instead, he chose to just suck it up, tiptoe to the door and slipped the key card from the slot on his way out, the room falling dark behind him. 

Although the hallway was barely illuminated, Brock blinked through the sudden change of scenery as if blinded. There was no way to tell if Steve had been there the whole time or whether he had simply appeared within the blink of an eye. Though the latter seemed less likely, Brock was inclined to hold onto the idea for a little while. 

The sight of Steve touched something deep inside Brock's body immediately, his casual stance, hands in the pockets of tight jeans over solid hips. His light blue shirt looked almost gray now against the calming dark green of carpet and wallpaper. He had his hair slicked back so annoyingly accurate Brock's hand itched with the desire to force his fingers through it. Tilt Steve's head with a rough tug, get his lips on Brock's and then make up for the lack of gentle touch. Brock's mind blanked on anything else, thoughts swimming in sex five feet from him. 

Sex and happiness. Dipping his toes in love and then crashing right in. 

And before he knew it, he was smiling in the middle of the night on an abandoned floor of a DC hotel. 

"Trouble sleeping?" Brock asked. He had meant it to be nothing more than a throwaway line, but before he'd even finished the sentence, he remembered Steve's struggles with jet lag and insomnia and immediately felt shitty for it. 

Steve looked a little wrung out, but not necessarily tired. His face was closed off though, eyes keeping track of Brock's every breath. Of every smallest twitch from sleep deprived nerves. Half a smile, tense nonetheless, appeared around one corner of his mouth and Brock craved to make it last. 

"Been a strange day," was all that Steve said though. Body standing still like a piece of art. A statue, a monument to Brock's insecurity. 

He didn't know whether he was allowed to move closer into Steve's space. If he was expected there. Or wanted. He didn't know what it had meant, Steve staying over. The sex they'd had. Almost ugly. Painfully raw. A testament to whatever they were. 

"You look good," Brock said, his mouth eager, but not necessarily to speak. 

Instead he wanted to go back to bed, go down on him and fall asleep with the taste of Steve's come down his tongue. He cleared his throat to cleanse himself of the thought, but it didn't work and he startled himself instead with how loud it echoed on the empty floor. "Can't believe you look this good at three in the fucking morning," he muttered to himself, wiping his face with a dry palm. "You okay?" he asked, conscious thoughts finally catching on to the reality of the situation. 

"You know me and Bucky are friends, right?" Steve asked, and Brock felt his heart tripping over itself at the sudden change of topic. 

He nodded, knowing in his gut where this was going. His body squaring up subconsciously for a fight impossible to avoid any longer. 

Steve mirrored his nods, taking in the confirmation. "I don't care about your history," he said, twisting and tearing Brock's reaction into two. 

He'd said it so dispassionately it physically hurt Brock that he had to believe him. Steve didn't do love. Steve didn't do jealousy. Steve didn't prioritize relationships. And yet he'd said it so condescending graciously that Brock wondered how someone with as much ugly history as Steve could be so full of himself. "I just want to know if it has anything to do with this," Steve added, all calm and sanctimoniously neutral. "I can't do this if it's going to get more complicated. More fucked up than it already is."

"Fucked up?" Brock echoed, then scoffed. They were already reaching the limit of '_complicated_' just fine on their own. It couldn't have gone past Steve as it hadn't gone past Brock. And maybe they were fucked up. A hundred percent fucked up. But he couldn't bear to hear it out loud. A relationship status of Fucked Up was unacceptable to him. 

"Some late rebound or whatever this is," Steve corrected, jerking his chin into Brock's general direction. The most arrogant and contemptuous gesture that bitch had ever let slip in front of Brock. 

"Whatever this is?" Brock repeated angrily, his jaw tightening. "Did last night really mean that little to you?" he asked, the sight of Steve making him sick by now. "I took pity on you, you know?" he went on, didn't care for whatever Steve had to say. "And suddenly _my_ history is the problem. Mine. This has to be a fucking joke."

He was angry, but he had enough practice that day to remember to keep his voice down. Screaming wouldn't have done anyone any good anyway. Steve was beyond redemption, and Brock was tired of fighting himself. 

"I never said it was," Steve just said, looking confused enough, but he couldn't fool Brock. "I said I don't care." 

"It was a long time ago," Brock reminded him, sure enough now that Steve knew what he was talking about since he'd brought it up himself. 

"You don't have to do this," Steve said, one hand coming up out of his pocket to flail ever so slightly. It was the only time Brock could recall seeing him like this. Struggling. 

"It's got nothing to do with this," Brock went on despite it. "Us. Whatever. This is between us. Only us. I'm over it. Over him." 

And he really was. Wasn't just saying these things to appease Steve. He knew he was being defensive over nothing. He had a fling over fifteen years ago. Obviously, he was over it. Over Barnes in his uniform. His blushing neck over camouflage. His muscles in training and his hair, by the end, way too long for regulations. Brock should have never let it slide. Out of selfishness. Just because he liked the way it had felt between his fingers, the way he could hold onto him while Barnes was busy between Brock's legs. 

"Over him," Steve cited, edging Brock's anger towards annoyance. 

"Yes, over him," he stated again for clarification. "We had a thing, we fooled around, we broke up. Nothing special." 

"Broke up?" Steve asked, causing Brock to wonder if he was simply expressing himself badly or whether Steve was too stupid to comprehend what he said. Maybe it was neither, or both, and the two of them were just fucking tired. 

"I was kicked out," Brock said still, inclined to give both of them the benefit of the doubt. "Of the Air Force, I told you that. And long distance never works." 

Steve stared for a short second, then frowned. His other hand came out too as he pushed back his hair with all fingers. "Long distance, huh?" 

"Jesus, Steve," Brock said exasperated. "Am I speaking a different language or what is your problem? Yes, long distance. You of all people should know where that guy has been before his accident. All around the goddamn world." 

"No, I know," Steve assured him. "Just didn't know you tried to make it work." 

"What did he tell you?” Brock asked, realizing that maybe he should have led with that question. 

"Just that-," Steve started, took a deep breath. "Just that it ended after you left. Had to leave," he corrected himself. Watching Brock for a moment, possibly seeking courage for what he asked then. "Did you love him?" 

Brock faltered, head shaking and eyes squeezing tight. "Steve, I-," he began, then stopped himself. "I don't really remember how I felt back then." It wasn't a lie. He had so rarely allowed himself to think of Barnes, to recall these memories of those few months, of Bucky's first summer at the base, that he felt mostly numb whenever he was confronted with them now. "I think I was-," he took a moment to find a word that felt right, "-being protective. I felt responsible for him in a way. The whole time. I was worried they were going to kick him out too. That whoever saw us or found out about us, that whoever reported me knew enough about what was going on to report him too." 

"But they didn't," Steve just said. It wasn't even a question. Both of them knew the end of the story, knew Barnes had spent half of his best years in uniform. 

"I was the one who should have known better," Brock remarked. "It's only fair that I took the fall for it." 

Steve watched him in silence, didn't dare to argue with his reasoning. He shifted his weight a little, the conversation laying heavy on whatever fragile web was spun around them. 

"Does he know?" Brock asked then, not sure whatever answer he wished for. "Barnes? Does he know about what happened? With you and me?" 

Steve shook his head. "You didn't want anyone to know," he simply stated, but to Brock it almost sounded like an accusation. He was relieved, still, that Steve had kept their relationship out of it. Though he knew he was a hypocrite for it since he himself had told Rollins just about an hour ago or so. 

"It's for the best," Brock said weakly, attempting to defend his policy. 

"Because you took pity on me?" Steve asked and this time the accusation was obvious. 

"I was angry," Brock explained. He really didn't want this to escalate into another fight. Into another match about which one of them was the rotten fruit in their gloriously shitty affair. Into a break up. "I didn't mean it. I was angry." 

"You're always angry," Steve let him know. Took the smallest of steps towards Brock. Or maybe he was just taking some weight off his foot. He wasn't wrong. Not entirely. About Brock's anger. But there was so much more inside of him. Not all of it bad. Not all of it ugly and spoiled with shame. Not all of it aiming to hurt. Some of it aiming to heal instead. 

"Look, I don't care that you won't be my boyfriend," Brock said, spitting out his last word. "I care that you think you're better than me for it when clearly you're just-," he stopped himself there, knowing better than to let some thoughts find voice. 

"When clearly I'm what?" Steve asked nonetheless. Pushing to hear it though he braced himself with his arms crossed in front of him. 

"When clearly you're just scared to be loved," Brock told him. Defeated. Every part of his body was feeling wrung out. "To settle down. To allow yourself some dignity. That's what makes me angry."

Steve watched him shake out a leg with his eyebrows raised. 

"What?" Brock asked annoyed, eyes roaming around for a spot to sit down. 

"And you really believe that out of the two of us, I'm the one thinking himself better," Steve said, keeping track of Brock with a stern gaze. "You can love me all you want, Brock," he said, tone cold. "That doesn't scare me. In fact, I'm willing to take every last bit and all of it. What scares me is that you keep trying to punish me for it. I'm tired of taking all that punishment that comes with your love."

"Don't you think I know that?" Brock hissed, taking a step towards Steve, then backed off again immediately. "I told you I do. I told you I know it's all me. All my baggage and all my issues. But knowing doesn't change anything, don't you get it? Realizing it doesn't change anything. You have to change too." 

"Me?" Steve asked, visibly offended now. 

"Yes, you," Brock told him. His back was starting to kill him and he cursed his age in his head. "You have to stop fighting me on every end. I'm not asking you to love me back, but you've got to start making an effort."

"I stayed all fucking night," Steve reminded him, standing firm in his spot without any strain while Brock envied him for his fitness. "Because that was important to you," Steve went on. "I've kept this quiet because it was important to you. I've stopped fucking other people because it was important to you. I've let you push me past every sane limit because for some fucked up reason that's important to you too. What more do you want?" 

This was going on too fucking long, so Brock just stopped pacing about in his tiny radius and instead slumped down against one of the walls, feeling the instant relief in his back once he was sat on the floor. "You've got to admit you're-," he started. Knew right away he was heading in the wrong direction. "You've got to take that shame off me," be practically begged much quieter. 

"I can't do that," Steve told him, looking down on Brock who felt failed and broken. "No one can do that. No one but you." He finally uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips instead. "By yourself."

"Don't do this," Brock pleaded, watching Steve in fear he would just walk off. "I don't want us to be a cliché. For us to call it quits in the middle of a night with nowhere to go," he said, purposefully avoiding to call it a break up. Though that's what it was. What it felt like. What was happening. Whether Steve liked it or not. "I don't want it," Brock said again. "I don't want this break. This heartbreak. I don't want this to end. Not for now, not for good. I don't want to one day have to tell someone about how we got back together. I want this start to finish. With nothing to skip or fast forward to in between." 

Steve let out an audible breath through his nose, then moved towards Brock and sat down beside him. "I thought you didn't want to tell people at all."

Knowing Steve wasn't going to go anywhere, Brock allowed himself to pull his knees closer to his body, wrapping his arms around them. He let his head fall between his shoulders, closing his eyes to try and collect his thoughts. "I already have," he admitted, talking into the zipper of his sweater. "Jack knows," he confessed although Rollins knew merely half of the story. Only its beginning. "My friend Sharon knows," he added, a bit surprised of how soothing it was to call her that. "And I'll tell Barnes right away if that's what it takes to convince you." 

There was a beat of silence, but Brock didn't dare to look up just yet. Then he heard Steve's voice again, much softer than before. "Maybe not right now."

Finally, Brock tilted his head, let it rest on his arm. "I'll figure out how to get my head right," he promised. "Let go of that shame." He wanted to reach out for Steve, but couldn't get his hand to move. "I swear I'll get it out of the way," he said instead, watching Steve take his time to contemplate the declaration. "Come on, you wouldn't have made it this far with me if you couldn't stand the idea of you and me," Brock tried one last time to convince him. 

"Maybe I took pity on you," Steve just said, letting the back of his head fall against the wall before he rolled it to the side to face Brock. 

Brock huffed, but just because he hadn't expected his assurances to have any successful effect on Steve. "I'm sure you did," he conceded. "Though I didn't deserve it," he added, then wondered in earnest about the reasons why Steve hadn't sent him on his way by now. 

"Maybe not," Steve agreed, wouldn't break eye contact. 

"How come you're still willing to try?" Brock asked carefully. "You are willing to try, right? Or did I get that wrong?" he added, suddenly uncertain if maybe he had misread the lightening mood. 

"I like things easy," Steve just said, smiling almost pitifully. 

"This isn't easy though," Brock reminded him. 

"I like things messy in bed," Steve offered then. He began to sway his knees, opening and closing his legs in a distracting way. 

"This is very messy," Brock admitted to the one thing he couldn't ever deny. 

"A lot of people have told me that it sucks to love me," Steve went on, ignoring Brock's comments. "That it hurts to love me. That falling in love with me is the worst thing that ever happened to them."

"It does suck," Brock agreed, but he offered Steve one of his gentler smiles. "And it does hurt, but it's hardly the worst." 

"I don't know what it feels like," Steve said. Let his knees fall open towards the floor, balancing his feet on the edge of the soles of his shoes and watching them. "Love," he clarified, but barely audible. "I don't know if it's really as big of a deal as anyone says." 

"Maybe it has been blown a little out of proportion," Brock contemplated, his voice quiet. "And commercialized, too. Especially weddings. And maybe Valentine's Day."

"You make me feel a whole lot of things at once," Steve said, looking back up at Brock then down to his feet again. "Not all of them good. Some of them though. Some of them really fucking good actually." He laughed at himself and Brock felt like finally this whole day was worth something. 

"Always aiming to please," he tried, though it wasn't the best he could do. Although he wouldn't let Brock see all of it, Steve smiled a little wider and Brock cherished the small surprise. 

"I like easy," Steve said once more, eyes coming up again. He waited a second for Brock to hold his gaze before he continued. "But life isn't." 

Brock knew the conversation was taking yet another turn and he swallowed to wake himself up and regain some concentration. 

"I know you think I don't know that," Steve went on. "But I do. And I know we've talked about this being a break from our lives. A pause. A distraction. Whatever you want to call it." 

Brock nodded, just to show Steve he, too, could recall these conversations. 

"It's not though," Steve retracted. "This isn't a break from anything. It's anger and frustration, and arguments. It's pity and spite and prejudice. Hate sometimes." 

He shook his head over his words as if he couldn't quite believe how deep this ran. How far it reached. 

"It's sex that you couldn't ever show on TV or print on paper. It's uncomfortable and off-putting. With a heavy taste. It's obnoxious and ridiculous," he admitted. "And too goddamn angsty for two people well over thirty-five." 

He closed his knees at once as if he'd made a decision, then faced Brock again. 

"And I think I like this more than easy," Steve told him. 

This time allowing Brock to see his smile, but it was gone all too soon. 

"I like it because it hurts and sometimes I want to hurt," he explained. "Because it's annoying and frustrating, and because sometimes I want to be angry too. Angry like you. And because sometimes I get tired of all the smiles at work and I ache to hate. To be around someone I hate, but someone I can trust. Someone who hates me right back, yet trusts me all the same. Someone who doesn't think me not developing romantic feelings is a character defect. Who doesn't think it's the worst thing about me. Or the only defining thing about me." 

Steve took a moment to just watch Brock, maybe trying to figure out if he was still following. Which he was. Patiently waiting for him to continue. 

"Someone who doesn't think me not developing romantic feelings means that I don't feel anything at all," Steve told him then, his voice laced with frustration. And hurt. "Someone who fucks me through it instead. Through all those shitty emotions no one likes to see or hear about. Fucks them right out of me or deeper into me, I don't care."  
  
They sat there, looking at each other in silence. It was a lot to take in. A whole lot of emotion that Brock hadn't expected. And it took a moment to sort through it. To comprehend its weight. When it became clear that Steve was done talking, Brock cleared his throat again, this time more carefully. 

"I can be that," he said quietly, still folding half-sentences and fragments of Steve's speech into the most intimate parts of his memory. He wanted to keep them, knowing they were part of the puzzle. Pieces to relieve him of that shame he had vowed to overcome. 

"That's good because I was talking about you," Steve just said, bumping one knee against Brock's elbow. 

"I think you appreciating me hating you has actually made me despise you a little less," Brock said, still trying to find some steady footing mind-wise after everything they'd just talked about. "And made me love you a little more," he added just because it felt right. 

"Just a little?" Steve asked, his head against the wall again. Looking cocky and, unfortunately, hot at the same time. 

"Marginally," Brock said. Tried not to stare. "You wouldn't notice if I fucked you right now." 

"Yeah, I bet," Steve agreed, a smile in the corner of his mouth again. "There's gotta be plenty left to draw from." 

For a moment all Brock could think of was leaning in and kissing Steve where that smile was tucked away. Bringing it home instead of spoiling the moment. But sleep deprivation was a killer beast to wrestle with. And although he was trained to keep it in check, he felt it coming over him at once. 

"I think I was paid to do something illegal tonight," Brock told him then, knowing he probably wasn't allowed to talk about it. "I think I either delivered a bribe or participated in blackmailing." He paused for a moment, his words hanging in the air, ugly and incriminating, but Steve didn't bother to fill the silence. "I think we're all involved in some sketchy shit. You, me. Rollins and Barnes." 

"But you don't know for sure," Steve said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. It was a coping mechanism. 

"I don't know for sure," Brock confirmed, though instinct taught him better than to rely on knowledge. 

He feared that it was all going to fall apart. That this time he had gotten himself so deep into someone else's shit for there to be consequences. And he desperately craved to hear it wasn't so. 

"We did our jobs," Steve said. "That's all." Brock closed his eyes. Let his words resound through his tired body. "It's all going to be alright," Steve added and Brock allowed himself to believe him for now. 

"What time is it?" Brock asked. He knew they'd been out here for a while. But he didn't know if they had to start worrying about early risers heading for the breakfast buffet already. Disturbing what was so vulnerable. 

Steve stretched out one leg, then felt around his jeans and over his pocket. "My phone's in my room." 

Somehow, the fact that Steve had left his phone behind to talk undisturbed made Brock love him a little more on top. If that bastard wasn't careful there wasn't going to be enough hate left to channel and match Steve's. 

Brock fished his own out from the depths of his pocket with some resistance and nudged the power button until the screen lit up. 

"Almost four," he let Steve know while noting with some relief that Jack hadn't texted him yet, asking where he was. "I should get back," he said nonetheless, not wanting to push his luck. 

Steve didn't reply, just pushed himself up into a squat first, then onto his feet. Brock didn't bother to even try and not look at his ass while he did. "Did I tell you you look good already?" he asked with a grin. Steve held out a hand, offering to help him up. 

"Too good to pass on?" Steve asked back, as he swept Brock onto his feet and pulled him in close. 

"Always," Brock just said, licking his lips. He didn't want to kiss Steve, knowing they were going to have to part ways, but he also didn't want to not kiss him after everything. 

"When are you going to fuck me through my own set of ugly feelings?" he asked, thinking that Steve still owed him that much. 

"When I'm convinced you won't have a fucking panic attack in between," Steve told him, not moving away from the spot they shared. 

"Just fuck that shame right out of me," Brock offered instead, eyes focusing on Steve's lips. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," Steve replied, tilting Brock's head up by his chin so he would meet his eyes. 

"Whoever said you were easy, had no fucking clue, did they?" Brock remarked, falling just a little more into Steve's body. Half joking and half in genuine wonder. He was somewhat desperate for Steve now and it bugged him that he couldn't have his way. 

"You have to meet me halfway too, you know?" Steve informed him.

"You know that I was insanely proud of what we have just today?" Brock admitted, planting his hands beneath Steve's collarbones. "Earlier when I saw you on the plane. Head high and chest swelling proud," he explained, letting his hands slide down south just until he got Steve's tits in a nice grip. "It was actually pretty fucking romantic whether you can grasp that shit or not. No offense," he added, squeezing the curve of Steve's muscles through his shirt. 

"None taken," Steve said, pushing them back until Brock's back hit the wall with a muffled thump. 

"Starting to despise you again," Brock told him, knowing Steve could feel that he was already half hard in his pants. 

"This isn't a good idea," Steve said and although Brock knew he meant well, he also knew it was bullshit. 

"Don't worry," Brock told him. "You can't catch feelings through two layers of jeans."

"You're really starting to enjoy this, aren't you?" Steve asked, pressing the bridge of his nose against Brock's temple and his thigh against Brock's bulging crotch.

"Dating an aromantic asshole must be good for something, right?" Brock said, then bit his lip. Worried Steve was going to scold him for the use of that label. Both of the labels. 

But he didn't. Instead, Steve pushed further into him and with more intent. Putting his mouth so close to Brock's ear. "Tell me you love me," he demanded.

"I love you," Brock told him. Meant it. Didn't need to hide it or hold it back. Maybe it was the first time he'd said it like that but both of them already knew. "I love you so fucking much I'm sick of it."

Steve rolled his hips against Brock's, thrusting ever so slightly every once in a while. All of his breaths, all of his gasps, were full of arousal, falling heavy into Brock's ears and running shivers down his back. 

"I love you and I don't give a fuck about what you think of that," Brock went on, discovering that the words came easy to him here too. Like they always have when it was Steve's body pressed against his. "I love you and I think it's funny that you don't," he added, couldn't stop himself from just rambling on as Steve dropped his forehead into the nape of Brock's shoulder, his cheek hot against Brock's neck. "Funny because it doesn't matter." 

He wasn't even sure if Steve was still listening or whether he had gotten lost in the way he pushed up against him, searching for the good spots, to scratch the itch of a hard cock trapped in taut jeans. Searching for satisfaction. 

"Funny, because you let me fuck you like all the others, thinking I was just the next in line." Brock could feel Steve's shoulders tensing, aware that he was walking a thin line. He wasn't planning on calling Steve anything he didn't want to be called anymore. Or not yet. But if Steve wasn't ashamed of his past, then neither would Brock be on his behalf. "And now you want me just as much as I want you. Now you want me as much as I'm scared to let you," he admitted. "And scared to have you. And scared to lose you." 

"Brock," Steve forced out, breathy on the consonants. But he wasn't just moaning his name in bliss. That cruel jerk wasn't done yet. "Ask me for it," he added, tables turning so smoothly when it was Steve Rogers directing them. 

He put his palm flat against Brock's cock, teasing some pressure, his fingers tracing its shape. 

"Don't make me walk back into that room with that tent in my pants," Brock tried, too proud to give Steve the satisfaction too soon. 

"Why not?" Steve asked, his lips by the collar of Brock's shirt, avoiding skin contact so skillfully, Brock almost hurt himself trying to chase them by craning his neck. 

"Because I wouldn't be able to sleep," he said, no idea what exactly it was that Steve wanted to hear. "Because I'd be thinking about you all night. In fucking pain from the hard-on you're giving me and with no opportunity to get rid of it." 

"You could ask Rollins to help you out," Steve said and Brock squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, no, no. He wasn't ready to go there. Entertain that thought. Not here and not now. Not today. Not with Steve cornering him for sex. Not with Steve who he loved. 

"No," Brock blurted, a little louder than he had meant to. Went to bury his face in Steve's shirt as an apology for the distraction. "No," he said again, more quiet this time. "It has to be you." He didn't need to think about it twice. "I want it from you, okay?" Once started, he couldn't keep any of it in for any longer. "I want you to get me off now. Help me get off." 

Steve used his hand on his crotch as well as the rest of his body. Soft kisses on oversensitive skin along Brock's jaw and down his throat to make up for the rough touch of the fabric against his cock. Steve's palm hot and relentless and behind it, his hips, fucking against him with painful precision. 

It didn't feel good, not entirely, not all around, but when had sex with Steve ever. It was still the only thing on Brock's mind, the intensity of the moment, Steve's body moving against him with hurried force. He dug his fingers deep into Steve's shoulders, making it hurt on purpose, an outlet for his shallow desperation. 

His body started to ache all over again, and Brock knew he was either going to come in the next two minutes or not at all, arousal fleeting to make room for exhaustion. 

Maybe Steve knew, was still paying him enough attention to read the signs, because he worked his fingers more rhythmically over Brock's cock now, coaxing something in Brock to build eagerly towards a release. 

It didn't take much from there, a couple of thrusts and a steady hand, the orgasm hitting Brock like a knee in the guts. He fell against Steve convulsing, body trying to curl in on itself. He buried his groan in Steve's shoulder, choked on it and then gasped for air through a slack mouth and lungs of a worn out body. 

Steve steadied him, perfectly unyielding in a way Brock only knew from soldiers. Brock tried to reel him back in, get his hips moving again, because he could feel the hesitation all over Steve's body. And he wasn't going to have any of it tonight. This morning. Whatever. 

"Don't you dare stop," Brock warned, his voice sounded rough even to his own ears. "Not for my sake," he added, trying to somehow get Steve to look at him. But they were wrapped up too close, too tight, Steve's breath hot and wet against the side of Brock's neck. "I'm not done until you've finished." 

Steve's body jerked against him for a second, hard and rough and just short of aggressive, before he got himself back under control and continued his shoving and thrusting against Brock in softer but equally painful ways. 

Brock was sore all over, and his wet boxers did very little to ease the burn of cheap cotton against oversensitive skin. Thankfully, Steve didn't draw it out more than he had to, didn't prolong the ordeal of Brock's spent dick. Soon enough he went over the edge in sputtering thrusts and muffled grunts that spilled in the hollow parts of Brock's chest until Steve's pleasure ran through him like blood through hungry organs. 

He didn't collapse, not even slightly, not in the way Brock had, body upright like steel, his head impossibly heavy on Brock's shoulder. There was one wet patch in Brock boxers, come slowly drying against his skin, and one more where Steve was breathing into him. Collar soaked from Steve's wet mouth, from his breaths, his lips, the rare moments he'd pressed his tongue against Brock's neck while he kissed him. Saliva cooling fast and brutally uncomfortable as their bodies came to. As Brock regained some sense of himself and his surroundings. 

With his fingers in Steve's hair, Brock tried gently to get him to lift his head, but Steve refused. Refused still when Brock got his thumb under his jaw, adding tender pressure. 

Brock's brain started recycling its thoughts, reminding him once again of Steve and his jet lags, his vulnerable moods, his fucking depression. It made Brock feel guilty suddenly and he was about to say something, when Steve pulled back on his own, not by much, just enough to kiss Brock on the mouth, lips sinking onto another for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. Brock didn't object, let Steve taste more of him instead, the feel of his tongue soothing Brock's anxiety in embarrassing ways. 

They kissed, Brock losing track of time, a second, ten, twenty-five. A minute. They were risking too much. Tapping his chest gently, Brock tried to get Steve's attention, this time succeeding on the first try. 

Steve took a step back first before he broke the kiss, leaving Brock's lips as abandoned as the spot on his shoulder, defenseless against the cold that wasn't Steve's body. 

"Say it again," Steve prompted. He looked a little tired, but less than he should considering the circumstances, and Brock wasn't sure if it was the aftermath of the sex, the lack of sleep, or simply the same strange form of boredom that Steve sometimes exhibited when faced with a certain kind of intimacy. 

"I love you," Brock said without skipping a beat, knowing if the third was true, he didn't do himself any favors. But it didn't matter. If Steve was about to lose interest, there was nothing Brock could do about it anyway. "Now you," Brock said, offered Steve a smile although even that cost him a lot of effort and energy by now. 

"Second night in a row," Steve said and shrugged. At first Brock thought he'd meant the sex, but then his brain caught up and he realized Steve had tried to downplay something much more meaningful with his seemingly offhand body language. 

It wasn't just the sex. Maybe some of it. It was the sex on top of their conversations on top of their honesty on top of what Brock still labeled as relationship negotiations in his head. It was the second night in a row they'd stripped each other naked and laid themselves bare. 

The second night they made it through. The second morning they'd come out of it. Intact. Maybe they weren't doomed after all. 

"Second night in a row," Brock repeated. He allowed himself to look at Steve more shamelessly now. "You look good, you know," he said, couldn't believe how fucking stupid they were. "Has anyone told you today?" he asked and grinned with the last his body had to offer. 

"Once or twice," Steve said, fixed his hair with a glide of his fingers. Brock couldn't tell if it was vanity or nervousness. Or if the latter was just wishful thinking. 

"You should get some sleep," Brock told him, suddenly realizing that while he could spend the day slouching about and dozing off, Steve couldn't. "You've got a fucking plane to pilot," he reminded him.

"Co-pilot," Steve corrected, but it made no difference to Brock. 

"Promise me you'll sleep," he urged, because he didn't know anymore where his business ended and Steve's began. 

"Goodnight, Brock," Steve just said, but he gave him another smile before wandering a couple of doors down into the hallway. 

"Night, Steve," Brock breathed, his eyes almost falling shut right then and there. 

He pulled himself together though for one last time, slid back into the bathroom as quietly and carefully as possible without turning the lights back on to clean himself up half-heartedly and brush his teeth like someone who didn't mourn the loss of another man's taste. 

When he finally reached his bed again, he could already feel the hotel coming to life around them slowly. But there was still time left. An hour or two for sleep. For his body to recharge. For his mind to drown out worries with hope. 

With Steve. 

An hour or two. 

To be comfortable. To feel almost loved. 


	12. Chapter 12

Brock sat with a headache through his breakfast with Jack. 

Sat with a headache through awkward silences and tentative attempts at conversation. 

Sat with a headache as he watched Steve make his way down the buffet, looking at every dish and then barely picking anything for his plate. 

He couldn't help but notice the lack of appetite, filed it away for later, for cooking ideas and takeout menus. 

As he followed Steve with his eyes, he sipped on his coffee although he knew it would only worsen his state. 

It was difficult to tell at first whether Steve didn't see them or whether he purposefully chose to ignore them. Ignore him. 

But once Steve sat down further down the room, with Barnes spread out over half their table,-- a couple of plates with bites of food on every single one, at least two cups and a glass of orange juice in front of him, as well as the morning paper --, and with his back to Brock, he looked over Barnes's shoulder, catching Brock's gaze almost instantly. 

And then, he smiled at him. 

Just like that. 

Smiled still as he broke away to sort his napkin. 

The coffee tasted better after that. And even the headache seemed to lighten ever so slightly. And facing Jack didn't seem as difficult as it had just a second ago. 

As expected, Pierce himself was nowhere to be seen. Brock guessed he might even have stayed at a better hotel or was having his breakfast in bed. 

"You still pissed about the game?" Jack asked, adding some salt to his eggs. 

"The game?" Brock echoed, forcing his eyes off of Steve and onto their own table. 

"The one we missed?" Jack clarified. He focused on Brock with a bit of suspicion, making him squirm. 

"No," Brock tried to assure him. Tried to keep up with his lies. "No, it's fine." 

He watched Jack for a second in return, contemplating once more to finally come clean. Let him know the truth about what was going on with Steve. 

But something stopped him. Stopped him like always. Some part of him didn't want Jack to know. Didn't want Jack to know who he was seeing. That he was seeing someone at all. 

"You have any more plans?" Rollins asked, pulling Brock from his thoughts. "For this weekend?"

"Sleep," Brock just said, but his eyes wandered to Steve without his permission. 

There was no way to tell, really, if Steve had slept like he'd promised. Not from where Brock was sitting anyway. No way to judge the lines beneath his eyes or the color of his cheeks. He looked okay as far as Brock could tell. Better than okay. He was as beautiful as ever. As effortlessly good-looking. Handsome and hot all the same. As tempting as ever. 

"Are you seeing someone, Jack?" Brock wondered then. He guessed he would know if it were the case, but with the way he's been so caught up in his own drama, it was easy to miss even important things going on with his friend. His friends. 

"Why do you ask?" Jack asked, still a bite of croissant in his mouth. 

"I don't know," Brock shrugged it off. "Are you?" 

"No," Jack just said. "'Course not," he added before he swallowed the pastry. 

"Did you know that some people just don't fall in love?" Brock asked, finally managing to bring his eyes back around to face Jack properly. "Like, ever." 

Rollins held his gaze for a while, a frown spreading on his forehead, reaching his eyes at last and he blinked. 

"What's that got to do with me?" he wondered, watching Brock with confusion still. 

"Nothing," Brock said, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't," he admitted. "Until recently." 

"Recently, huh?" Jack repeated, propping his chin on his hands and his elbows on the table. "Rogers recently?" he asked. His tone was curious, but there was something beneath the inquiry, beneath the interest. Something like hurt. Like judgment. Like jealousy. 

"Did you know?" Brock asked back, refusing to confirm. 

Jack took his time to watch him for a while longer. Time to take another bite off his breakfast. Another sip of coffee. Maybe considering the question. The things beneath it. "I can see it," he said eventually, not quite answering. 

Since he didn't really have an idea what to do with it, Brock just nodded along over the statement. Deciding to let it go instead of digging himself deeper into it. 

He had hoped to catch up on some sleep on the plane, but the couple of glimpses he caught of Pierce in the back while boarding set off his anxiety once more, leaving him nervous and panicky throughout the entire flight. 

He had no real evidence that he'd knowingly done something illegal, but more importantly he didn't think anyone else could have either. All he had was a sick feeling deep in his guts, muddy and heavy that things were going to spiral out of control if he couldn't manage to keep a tight lid on everything. 

He knew what was coming in the following weeks. Paranoia was no stranger to him after all. 

Overthinking and then a desperate scramble for distraction. Endless worrying, sleepless nights and sweaty sheets. Finally he'd lash out, making everything twice as bad. Starting over then, twice as anxious, twice as restless. 

"Do you wanna come over later?" Brock heard himself say before his brain snapped fully back into the present. "I-," he stumbled for a second, then caught himself. "I've got some beers in the fridge." 

Next to him, Jack looked a little confused, confused and slightly wrung out still, slightly haunted too, but he nodded first and then shrugged. 

"Sure," he said, maybe needing some company as bad as Brock did. 

Brock went for a little smile and a simple manly nod, with no idea, still, how to properly phrase his thanks. 

Outside the window, the sky was a bright blue, a field of fluffy white clouds beneath them and Brock wished he could sleep in it. For a second he wondered how he went from barely flying once every other year, to spending so many of his hours in the air. And how many of them he spent with Steve in the same aircraft without them planning to. But he wouldn't go as far as to start believing. In fate and destiny. In meant-to-bes. In love-will-find-a-ways. 

It wasn't love after all. Not all the way. 

Frozen dust had settled on the outside of the glass with Brock's life bottled up here, in an endless open sky. 

And maybe he hated flying a little less when it was always going to be like this. If it was Steve in the cockpit. If memories from last night were still fresh. The cotton of Steve's shirt under his fingers and his breath pressing against his skin. 

And for once he had to dig deep to remember the hate that Steve didn't mind. Had to dig deep to remember what it was about Steve he couldn't bear. 

None of it seemed to matter here. 

Part of Brock had wanted to ask Steve for company, for a third night. But he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him, wouldn't be able to let him sleep. Let him rest. Let him recover from this never-ending work week. 

So he had kept this part of him in check. Had appeased it with ideas of later, of next week, of any other day but this. 

The white noise of the engines calmed his anxiety as much as thoughts of Steve stirred it. 

Thoughts of what was said last night. 

Unanswered questions. 

He'd been aware that Steve and Barnes knew each other. Were getting along well. But Steve had called them friends. Whatever that meant in Steve's world. 

In Brock's, friends didn't fuck each other. But Steve was known to fuck his co-pilots, his co-workers, his friends whenever he needed to. Preferred fucking them even to more casual one-night-stands. Shamelessly facing them day after day afterwards. 

Embarrassment mixed with his anxiousness, and he had to remind himself that Barnes was with Falcon to calm himself down. Had to remind himself that he was the one who had been with Barnes in the past. Who, back in the day, knew him just as well as Wilson did now. Not everything was about Steve and his mistakes. 

Not everything. 

And Brock was better off leaving some sentiments undisturbed today. Leave them buried in better memories. And hope for the future. 

He glanced over to Jack, who had his head back against his seat, unshaven throat bared and with his eyes closed. Not all of Brock's questions had been answered last night. Not all answers had been believed. But this was hardly the place to go over them again. Not with Pierce breathing down their necks. 

This time, Brock had seen neither Steve nor Barnes while boarding, cockpit door shut tightly with all checks already out the way. Everything on and around the plane already buzzing with the impending takeoff. 

This wasn't Brock's world, but he knew if he was going to hold onto Steve he would have to get used to it. Be a part of it even. 

He couldn't help but wonder just how far Jack had already dived into it. Deep enough for Barnes to invite him to his boyfriend's birthday party. 

"Were you really planning to show up?" Brock asked then, surprising himself with how eager his thoughts were to fall out of his mouth. "Wilson's party? If it hadn't been for work." 

Jack only cracked one eye open and frowned. 

"Obviously," he just said, then settled back again with his eyes shut. "And if I'd known what was going to happen, I would have," he added under his breath. 

It stung and Brock was glad that Jack couldn't see the way his face grimaced in offense. 

"It's not a big deal," he said, knowing it was too vague to refer to one thing specifically.

"Then why'd you asked?" Jack wondered, still not bothering to fully partake in the conversation. 

"Do you know other pilots?" Brock asked, his voice sounding pathetically hesitant. 

"You got a taste for it now?" Rollins asked, grinning distasteful even by Brock's standards. 

"No," Brock said immediately and he was glad Steve wasn't there to witness the foul twist in his tone. He wished he had never taken this job on the side. 

His phone weighed heavy in the pocket of his jeans, and his hand twitched with the escape it presented. Though he knew even if we were to take it out, disable airplane mode and connect to the onboard wifi, find a subtle way to angle the screen from Jack's gaze and then open his text messages, he knew that Steve was likely too busy or too responsible to check his phone for messages or take the time to reply. Brock had no idea what to write anyway. No clue how to phrase the assurances he so desperately longed for. 

Maybe confirmation that last night had been real and that what happened wasn't going to be tarnished by the dubious consent of sleep deprivation. Maybe an invitation, time and date of when they were going to see each other. Or just the knowledge that he was worth a second of attention. Validation. Maybe the lowest part of him wanted to know that he could still get it. Wanted some dirty pictures himself to jerk off to. 

Instead, he turned toward the window again, trying to get his mind away from Steve, from Barnes, from Jack. Away from Pierce. Nothing had happened and he was going to be alright. Everything was fine. 

Beneath them the white clouds had long turned gray and raindrops had begun to fall on the runways of Chicago's biggest airport. 

* * *

Back home, the first thing Brock did after shrugging out of his jacket was to pick up Crossbones despite his rain-damped hair and her protests. For once loneliness seemed to overwhelmingly take hold of him, whether he had reason to or not. Regrets over the entire trip were still flooding his stomach and he needed to just hold her for just two seconds and hoped she could forgive him. 

He let her go after that, ditched his shoes and pushed his bag to the side with his foot as he made his way back into the kitchen. He opened another can of Crossbones's favorite and poured it into her bowl as his usual way of apologizing before refreshing her water too. 

Then he walked over to the fridge, opening it in hopes that he had left himself something special and tasty and soothing in there he'd forgotten about in the meantime. 

Somewhat numbly, he stared for longer than was appropriate. The yellowy light and cool damp air took him back to the emergency staircase, his steps echoing in the ticking of his kitchen clock. He shook it off, but his appetite vanished with it. His stomach still tightened over empty cravings, breakfast had been too fucking long ago. 

Pushing his memories, his worries aside, he uncapped the milk to check if it was still okay before he poured himself a bowl of cereal. In the back he found two forgotten sticks of cheese strings that he took out as well and, without thinking, he grabbed the tonic water as well, fetching the vodka from the freezer. 

Steve was rubbing off on him in all sorts of ways. 

Looking at the food and drink in front of him, he wondered whether his stomach was better off with this stuff inside or not. 

He reached for his phone and snapped a picture, sharing it in his chat with Steve before he typed out a message.

To Steven 2:21PM   
is this suicide?

Then he opened the drawer beneath the counter, fished out a spoon and slid it with his cereal. 

He carried everything into the living room and turned on the TV for the company Crossbones just wasn't willing to provide right now. 

Just after he'd sat down on the couch his phone lit up with Steve's reply. 

From Steven 2:29PM  
No, it's good taste. 

Brock was already smiling when Steve followed up on that. 

From Steven 2:30PM  
Maybe a little ahead of its time…

To Steven 2:30PM  
Are you alone? 

He had already hit sent before he could stop himself. 

To Steven 2:31PM  
maybe we could talk? on the phone? 

As the first minute went by without another reply, Brock already knew the answer was going to be no. But he had to wait another three to get it confirmed. 

From Steven 2:35PM  
With friends right now. I'll call you later. 

Great. 

For a while Brock stared at his increasingly soggy cereal, putting some on his spoon only to dump it back and pick up the glass instead. 

After all the stress of last night and the crowded morning, he suddenly felt so fucking abandoned it hurt him everywhere. And it hurt him to admit it. 

Rollins was only going to step by in hours and something simply kept Brock from asking him to change the plans. He had no doubt that Jack would manage to head over sooner, but part of him knew he couldn't repay him. Not in the ways that were subtly coming to the surface. The ways Brock would like to keep buried for a while longer. 

So instead, he called the only other person in Chicago he's ever called a friend. 

Twenty minutes later he was sprinting through the cold and down the afternoon sun lit street to catch the bus, then panting and shivering as he sank into the seat, the warmth and the little alcohol in his system granting him lesser known comforts of public transportation. 

He fumbled with his headphones, untangling the ball with numb fingers. The skin on the back of his hands was rough from the cold, dry from work and the deepening lines reminded him that he wasn't going to have many more chances to get it right and settle down somewhere. 

He put on an old playlist, songs that he'd listened to long before Steve, all of them sounding different now. Some better, some worse, but he felt misunderstood by all of them. 

Traffic made its way towards O'Hare and he was swept along with it, almost missing his stop out of habit. He wasn't going to work today. 

His heart was drumming in his chest as he passed Steve's building, half for fear of being accused of stalking, half aroused from memories that made his cheek blush in the cold. 

The image of Steve on his armchair, watching him, popped up now almost every time he touched himself. More things that were ruined. Not ruined. More things that were changed. 

Maybe he slowed his steps for a second, maybe he wanted to give the universe an extra chance to make them bump into each other. 

But it didn't happen, of course it didn't, because Steve was with friends. So he picked up his pace again and reached Sharon's apartment a little out of breath, tips of his ears freezing cold but with his cheeks still hot. 

"Hi," she just said, letting him in immediately. 

Brock smiled, stepping into the place he last remembered fleeing from. Hungover and with a guilty conscience. Confused and yearning for the apartment that resembled this one so much. 

"Sorry for this," he apologized, feeling unnecessarily emotional. "I was losing my mind back home." 

"Don't worry about it," she told him. "You look cold," she added, guiding him toward her couch by his shoulders. "How about coffee?" 

"Sounds good," he said, although he had planned to say thanks instead. 

While Sharon was off to the kitchen corner, Brock took a look around the room from where he was sitting, taking in everything he had missed before. The plants on the higher shelves and the photos on the wall. Boxing gloves next to a nail polish collection. A basket full of throw pillows and the stack of books on the coffee table in front of him. A couple of boxes off in the corner of the room. Taped shut and labeled. '_Summer clothes_', '_kitchen_' and '_Christmas_' written across the front sides in black sharpie. 

"Haven't had a chance to unpack those yet," Sharon said, suddenly standing beside him and placing a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. "Or a reason, to be honest," she added, then sat down next to him on the sofa. 

"You just moved in?" Brock asked, ashamed that it hadn't come up earlier in one of their by now countless talks during lunch or just before their shifts would start. 

"It's been a few months," she told him, hiding some embarrassment with a smile. 

"It's a good neighborhood," Brock tried, though he wasn't particularly fond of the people who could afford living here. 

"Expensive though," Sharon said as if she had read his mind. "I got an aunt that pulled a few strings with the landlord." 

Brock nodded though his thoughts took him back to Pierce and he wondered if O'Hare's CEO had a couple of nieces to pull strings for. Bend rules for. 

"So, you're having a tough weekend?" Sharon asked then and Brock got the feeling she switched topics for his benefit alone. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Tough felt like an understatement now. Though he could hardly explain just how fucked up things really were. In his head mainly. 

"I'm not usually like this," Brock said. He was struggling now to give good reasons as to why he didn't manage to just spend a couple of hours home alone. He hadn't even been entirely alone. Wasn't that why he'd gotten a cat in the first place? To fill some of the extra space with meaning. 

"No, come on," Sharon interrupted his thoughts immediately. "I'm glad you called to hang out. I've been curious what you've been up to." She smiled and he could tell by the look on her face that his secret was still safe with her. That she wouldn't ask if he didn't want to tell. But there was a glint, too, in her eyes and Brock figured from it that she expected some juicy details if he'd choose to tell. 

And maybe Brock wanted to. But he didn't know where to start. So instead, he finally reached for his cup, let the heat of the coffee seep through his palms before he took a first sip and let it flow into the rest of his body. Then he let the cup rest in his hands on his lap, his thoughts wandering off without him meaning to. 

To Steve, as usual. To all the things he'd said. To all bodily reactions Brock had experienced since Steve had first talked him up. The emotions that had manifested themselves into physical sensations. Interest and arousal. Inadequacy and disgust. Anger and pride. Jealousy and frustration. 

"He's been good," Brock said. His lips felt dry and he hadn't meant to say these words out loud. "Steve," he clarified nonetheless. Reminding himself. 

"What do you mean?" Sharon asked. There were small lines of confusion on her forehead, not quite a frown, as she kept a painfully neutral expression. 

"I've been an ass to him," Brock said. Saying it out loud didn't hurt anymore. He's admitted it before. To Steve, more than once. He knew, the realization had been there for miles and weeks. "I can't help it," he added, which hurt more. "I'm trying, but it's difficult," he went on as Sharon sat quietly beside him, listening. "There's things so difficult to unlearn that it feels impossible. Although, I know better. Although I know him better. I'm still a jerk most of the time. It's like he brings out the worst in me." 

"First of all," Sharon started, took a sip and then put her cup aside. "Does he deserve it?" she said, making Brock laugh so unexpectedly, he spilled some of his coffee on his jeans. 

He used the heel of his palm to just rub it in, ignoring the milky stain. 

"No," he said, still smiling as he faced her. "I don't think so." Glancing down cowardly, he went on. "He just-," Brock started, but then cut himself off. He was feeling it all again now. The anger and the shame, and the urge to blame Steve alone for it. "I get jealous," he admitted. "Judgemental. And I can't stand when he sees things so different from the way I do, or when he's too stubborn to put himself in my shoes. He worries less and it scares me. It's like I'm insane." He took a moment to just push it all down. Sharon waited him out. Maybe sensing there was more he needed to get out.   
"Part of me hates him for worrying less. And maybe for having less to worry about too," he confessed. "Not a small part. His independence freaks me out. I don't think it's natural. I make up reasons for his behavior. Excuses. Because if I wouldn't, what does that say about me?" he asked nervously. Still couldn't meet her eyes. "That I was okay with all of it. Wouldn't that be worse?" 

He couldn't tell her about all the ways Steve managed to make his blood boil. And he couldn't tell her about all the ways Steve grossed him out, as a single stand-in for all the terrible guys and the ugly acts he participated in. The manifestation of everything he had ever despised. 

"A lot of people like Steve for who he is," Sharon said after a small pause and a shock ran through Brock as he suddenly feared he had said some of these things out loud. But the softer expression on Sharon's face made him doubt he had let anything slip. Maybe she was just good at guessing. "They're okay with it," she added, using Brock's own words. "Do you think that's wrong?" 

"I don't know many people who are actually," Brock admitted. "To be honest, I'd be surprised if you could name more than one." 

"That's harsh," Sharon just said. "He has a lot of friends." 

Brock didn't want to tell her why. 

They looked at each other for a while, each of them a little helpless as to what to do with this conversation. 

"I told him, I loved him," Brock said then. Not that it helped with the helplessness. 

"You can't love him and not be okay with who he is," Sharon reminded him without a beat of hesitation. "That's just not how it works." She looked at him then for a moment, considering something. "So which part are you lying about?" she asked him bluntly. "The part about loving him or the part about not accepting him." 

Accepting was too neutral a word and that was precisely what made this entire thing with Steve unacceptable. 

The truth, as always, was that he wasn't just okay with Steve, but that he liked him. Liked it. That he was drawn to it and obsessed with it. Everything that Steve stood for, he had a morbid fascination with. Every last disturbing detail he'd heard about him in the past, every abominable thing he came up with in his mind to fill the blanks. 

He liked it. 

And that couldn't be right. Couldn't be alright. Could it? 

Though it was similar to shame, -- the sudden rush of heat and his restless fingers, the unexpected drop in his stomach and his heart hammering, fleeing, racing away--, it wasn't shame that Brock felt in that moment. His body reacted to something more akin to flattery. To fancy. To flirt. 

"You're good at this," he told Sharon, feeling lighter, almost admitting to a smile although it wasn't right. 

"I'm really not," she tried, but Brock found that hard to believe. 

"After he gave you his number," Brock started, kneading his empty fingers in his lap. "Did you ever go out with him?" he asked then and briefly wondered how many times more he was going to spell out that same question. Shyly and with a hint of hurt. Knowing always it wasn't ever going to be any of his business. But Sharon shook her head before he had a chance to dwell on it. 

"No," she said, shrugged. Reminding Brock of Jack for a second. 

"Because of his reputation?" he wondered, internally cringing about bringing it up like that. Steve wouldn't be happy about him worrying about that still. 

"His what?" Sharon asked, then laughed. Unable to follow. 

Brock felt himself blushing. He didn't like being laughed at. Even if it was a friend. Even if it wasn't mean spirited but kind-hearted. It still made him feel uncomfortably exposed. 

"You know what I mean," Brock tried, but he felt insecure now. "His hookups." 

"No, he didn't give me his number for-," she paused, searching for a fitting word. "For that," she eventually just settled on. "I got into an argument with one of his co-pilots a while back and he'd said to call if I needed him to put in a good word for me," Sharon explained. The memory didn't seem too painful as her cheerful expression never changed. "Obviously, I told him _no_, because I'm way too proud for that. But he said to keep his number anyway. For emergencies, he'd said." 

She drew up her shoulders and held out her palms in Brock's direction as if to guiltily present him and say '_You counted as an emergency in my book_'. And Brock couldn't blame her. He sure as hell had felt like an emergency at the time. 

"Besides," she started again just a second later, "I was interested in someone else at the time." 

"Really?" Brock asked, growing more curious. After all, this was what friendships were about too. Sharing. And a bit of gossip. 

"Yep," she confirmed again. "Was busy having my own hopeless crush." 

"Who was it?" Brock wondered, couldn't stop himself. He wanted to know who sidelined Steve with Sharon. 

"This girl Kristen," she said a little hesitantly. Hiding behind her hand for a second. "She passes through security a lot." 

"Flight attendant Kristen?" Brock tried for clarification. 

"That's the one," Sharon said, her cheeks were a little flushed now too. 

"What happened to that crush?" Brock asked. He could feel his entire body relax with the new topic. Sharon's words drawing in all his focus, suffocating his anxiety the longer she talked. So he wanted to keep her talking. "You said _a__t the time_'," he recalled. 

"I was too dumb to do anything about it," she admitted, shaking her head and dropping in into her open palms for a second. When she looked back up at Brock she showed him a crooked smile, her bottom lip tucked away between her teeth. "For weeks I wanted to," she went on, pulled her legs all the way up the sofa so she could settle cross-legged against the cushions. "I really, really wanted to. But at first I couldn't get a single word out whenever I saw her and then I didn't run into her for weeks. And the next time I did I was back at square one and the whole cycle started up again." She pushed her hair back with her fingers, making Brock think of Steve for a split second. But unlike with Steve, he could immediately tell it was out of nervousness. "I'm telling you the whole thing was cursed," she added and laughed. 

And so did Brock, more tension leaving him. "I promise you it's not," he assured her. "I've seen _cursed_. I'm living _cursed_. So I know from experience nothing is a lost cause. It can still work out. Even if everything points to the opposite direction. 

At that she smiled again with her lip between her teeth, possibly not entirely over her crush. Then she launched forward to get hold of Brock's chin and neck to place a playful first kiss in the center of his cheek. And a second and third in quick succession on the same spot. 

Brock had his eyes squeezed tight and was smiling from ear to ear as he leaned into her. Now he could barely remember why he had been in such a bad mood all day, why he'd been brooding over his relationship with Steve once more if everything was fine. If they were fine. If Sharon didn't care about Steve and his countless adventures, Brock could leave his obligation to care behind as well. Could stop obsessing unless he obsessed over it for his own pleasure. With Steve and for his pleasure too. 

They talked for a while about impossible crushes and about personal feelings annoyingly interfering with work. Talking about those weeks Brock had been dying to see Steve pass through security while he was out on one long-distance flight after the next, felt oddly nice. Oddly normal and relatable all the sudden. 

Recounting that time he'd waited for Steve at arrivals after he ended up on his flight from New York. And with his help no less. The rush of endorphins at his sight in uniform and the disappointment afterwards when Steve didn't share his excitement right away. Admitting to just how much he hated Steve being a big-shot pilot while being headlessly attracted to this part of Steve too. 

It all felt easy to share at once. With Sharon nodding and smiling and teasing him in every innocent way. Here, for a moment, it was just another normal crush. Another flirt. Another budding relationship. And for once, Brock had hopes for a honeymoon phase after all. Had hopes for them to leave their struggles behind. Their never-ending arguments. Maybe from now on, they would only rile themselves up without hurting each other. Would explore whatever they needed from the kind of hate sex they would practice safely and within reasonable limits. Maybe their mess could become a comfortable pile of lovable trash after all. 

Sharon told him her embarrassing stories in return, the ways she'd stammered herself through the security checks with Kristen and the moments she'd stumbled over her own feed whenever she unexpectedly walked past her, rushing towards a different terminal. 

They laughed together as the time passed, until Brock had tears in his eyes and they found themselves holding firmly onto the other's hand to keep from falling off the couch. 

And when it was almost time for Brock to leave, to make it home in time for Jack, Sharon offered up her place and whatever drinks she had left in the fridge instead. 

Brock wasn't even going to pretend to argue or double check if it was really okay. This time around he wanted nothing more than to stay. To be surrounded by good company. By his friends until late in the evening, possibly the entire night. 

Jack, on the other hand, sounded a bit more hesitant when Brock first called to ask, but eventually agreed to meet with them at Sharon's place later. Brock could tell by how tired he sounded still that he probably wasn't up for a group night, yet Brock didn't want him to be without company either. Knew he probably needed it just as much although he was more reluctant to say so. And there was still a chance that he had worse than Brock to digest from last night. No matter how tired Jack was, Brock definitely didn't want him to suffer in solitude if that was the case. Wanted him to have more than enough distraction instead. More than Brock alone would have been able to provide. 

With a little over an hour to spare and although it had already gotten dark outside, Sharon managed to convince Brock to head out for a quick run to the grocery store, stocking up on snacks and beer. 

Of course, his mind had jumped to thoughts of Steve immediately, thoughts of running into him, of seeing him alone out on the streets. Or worse, with company. But once they had passed his building without catching a glimpse of Captain America, Brock forgot all about him, all wrapped up in conversations about chips and extra toothbrushes and plans for Thanksgiving. 

And then his phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Once. 

Maybe a message. 

Twice. 

Not just a message. 

And then continued buzzing. 

A fucking phone call. 

And once he got it in his hand to look at, the screen started to mock him all the same as fate. Or karma. 

Steven, it read. Of course it was him. 

Brock picked up mostly out of reflex and possibly out of fear of Steve hanging up before Brock had a chance to decide what to do. 

He held the phone close to his ear, just breathing for a long second before he found his voice. 

"Yeah?" he said, cringing over the stupid opener. 

"Brock?" Steve asked, which wasn't any better. They were still both idiots. 

"Yeah, it's me, sorry," Brock told him nervously. He suddenly felt unbearably on display in the middle of aisle six. 

"I said I'd call, so-," Steve started, leaving them hanging in the middle of it. "I mean, you asked to talk on the phone, right?" 

"Right," Brock said, remembering his stupid photo and his stupid texts now. 

He'd almost completely forgotten about Steve on the other end, so he rushed to get all the words out. "Right, I did," he told him. "I did that. Uh, I wanted to see if you were okay after, well, everything. After being up most of the night and all that. And I was just-, um, well you know how I get. I was just worried about that whole thing again." 

"Is that Jack?" Sharon asked in a whisper and Brock almost jumped. He'd forgotten about her too. 

'Steve', he mouthed, seeing her face light up immediately. 

"Ask him to join us," she suggested, barely keeping her voice down anymore. 

"I'm fine," Steve told him over the phone. "Is this a bad time?" 

"No!" Brock insisted, once more on nothing but reflex. "It's not, it's not," he added, looking helplessly at Sharon who motioned at him to keep going. Or rather go get it out. "My-, my friend Sharon," he started and could feel the sweat creeping up on his neck. "You know her, actually. From the airport? Anyway, she lives right by your building and-." He already knew it was too late now to backtrack. He already knew that he didn't want to backtrack anymore. "We're hanging out over there later. Just her and Jack and me," he added, not breaking eye contact with Sharon. Somehow with her reminding him of easy, how normal, things could be, he felt like putting himself out there. "Maybe you want to come over too? For a drink or whatever?" He kind of blew it with his pathetic attempt at downplay at the end, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was a forty year old man, for god sake. He should be able to ask his boyfriend or whatever to hang out without suffering a nervous breakdown. 

There was a small split-second pause, so small that Brock couldn't recall later if he'd made it up for suspense before Steve replied. 

"Sure," he just said. Unfairly easy and with a steady voice. "Sounds good." 

But in reality, it sounded horribly anxiety inducing. 

What the fuck. 

"In an hour?" Brock offered, although he couldn't quite grasp that this was happening. Was going to happen. In an hour. 

"Just text me the address again," Steve told him, --subtly confirming that he had at least a vague idea who Sharon was and where she lived--, "and I'll be there in an hour." 

"Okay," Brock said, but still didn't fully believe it when he heard Steve echo his '_okay_' on the other end of the line. "I'll text you the address," he assured him. 

Then he held his breath and listened into the silence on the phone, letting himself get carried away with it. From the fading world around him and into the intimacy of Steve's breaths. 

"See you then?" Steve asked hesitantly. But just the right amount. Unsure if there was something else Brock had wanted to say. He was considering enough to not wrestle the conversation into a premature end. Not if the impulse to hang up was just one sided. His voice was low and cool but tender all the same. It enraged and enchanted Brock all the same. 

"Yeah," he said again, secretly relishing in his words. "See you then," he added, kept his phone to his ear until the soft silence was cut off by sleek nothingness. Until the soul of the call took its last breath and all it left behind was electronics in a plastic shell pressed against Brock's ear. 

He lowered his hand slowly, hit the home button again in hopes to find the call still going. But the only thing revealing itself was a low quality picture of Crossbones in his bed just before sunrise and the clock swapping minutes on his lock screen. Almost as if nothing had ever happened at all. 

"What the fuck did I just do?" Brock asked at the same time as Sharon excitedly drummed her fingers all over his arm. 

"This is good," she told him, her tone unusually elevated. "This is so good," she said again, smiling. "This is the best weekend." 

Convinced about what she'd just proclaimed, Sharon hooked an arm around Brock's elbow, who promptly messed up his pattern to unlock the screen. He tried again, even with the added difficulty of being dragged along by his arm until he got it right. He needed to be sure. Like a lovesick fool, he needed to be sure. So he opened his recent calls to find proof of his latest conversation. 

Incoming call  
From Steven 6:58PM  
Duration 4:01min

There it was. Evidence. It was on the record now somewhere. For four minutes and one second, they had been doing okay. No fighting and no arguments. Four minutes and one second of casual conversation. Of checking in. Of making plans. 

Of normalcy. 

And for four minutes and one second Brock believed it almost possible. That he could hate Steve a little without hurting him. That he could love him without hurting himself. That they could be better than Steve's bad experiences and Brock's ugliest insults. That he could be better than a bad experience, better than bad sex in a bad week. Better than a bad decision. 

"He just agreed to spend time with my friends," Brock said, to no one in particular although he didn't care if the whole store would end up knowing. In fact, he would be fucking pleased if the entire goddamn street would end up knowing. 

"Yeah he did," Sharon said, bouncing on her feet and tugging on his sleeve. "Told you he's perfect just the way he is," she added, beaming at him with excitement. 

Watching her, he finally got his head back fully into the present, although he didn't dare yet to let go off his phone. Held so tightly onto it, it painfully dug into the fleshy soft side of his palm. 

Brock nodded, allowed himself to consider it. He knew that, back in New York, his Dad would find other words for Steve. Words even Brock hadn't touched yet. Perfect, surely, wasn't one of them. Was farthest from them. Back in New York, Steve's own family probably had other words for him. Brock still remembered the look on Steve's face that first night when they had first breached that subject. Politely detached. 

But this was Chicago, and there was no reason why, here, Steve couldn't be all that he was and still be perfect. Perfectly alright. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly okay for Brock. 

A perfectly abhorrent to Brock's perfectly fucked up. 

No reason whatsoever. 

"So, should I type out the address?" Sharon asked, watching his thought process patiently but not without visible excitement. 

* * *

The worst thing was that Brock knew he had to tell Rollins, tense and tired Jack Rollins, that he was going to spend his Saturday night with Steve Rogers. That it wasn't just going to be a group of three friends spending some time on their day off, but that it was going to be an awkward introduction of someone new. Someone not so new in Jack's eyes. Someone who used to be the subject of many terrible discussions and many more terrible jokes. 

Someone who would be beautifully misplaced. 

The whole thing would obviously blow Brock's whole lie of only sleeping with Steve once and being annoyed with him ever since wide open. Jack wasn't stupid. He'd realize instantly what was going on. What had been going on for weeks. 

And he would hate Brock for it. Rightfully so. 

There was very little time to spare and yet Brock wasted it by forcing the entire debacle into a far corner of his head. Unable to deal with it just yet. 

Back in her apartment, Sharon overloaded an entire army of tiny colorful bowls with chips and dip and balanced them over to the coffee table. 

"Remind me of these, okay?" she told him, sticking a couple of beers into the freezer. 

"I'll try," Brock said, fumbling with his collar. He had no idea he was going to see Steve tonight and he felt utterly underdressed and underprepared. 

He was still wearing the same things as this morning when Steve had smiled at him during breakfast. And although they were all fresh when he'd packed them for their overnight work trip, the shirt under his sweater was starting to feel long worn and sweat-soaked from the panic, from his sprint to catch the bus, from taking Steve's call at the grocery store. The coffee stain on his jeans was still vaguely visible just below the hem of his pocket. At the seam of his sweater, there was a hole, tiny still this morning, but the cheap threads had come apart wider during the day, making Brock feel self-conscious. 

"He's going to hate this," Brock said absently, accidentally making things worse by pulling on a loose string. 

"Who? Steve?" Sharon asked, having caught his worries as she carried over a batch of glasses. "No, he loves being around new people," she answered her own question, sounding surprisingly convinced of that knowledge. 

"Because he's always looking for a new fling," Brock said out of reflex and because he was annoyed with himself. Annoyed with himself in a way that made him want to take it out on Steve. "Forget it," he added, hated himself for that remark. "I meant me," he corrected her finally. "He's going to hate how I look." 

"But you look fine," she said immediately, coming up to squeeze his wrist. "Better stop fiddling with that though," she told him. Then tucked the loose thread safely on the inside. "You're worrying about nothing. I'm sure he's just happy to see you." 

"How do I tell Jack?" Brock asked then. He knew it was time to prepare for the inevitable. "He'll be here in a minute when I should have warned him beforehand." 

"Just tell him it's important to you," Sharon offered, busied herself with last minute touch-ups. "He'll understand."

"Will he though?" Brock wondered, feeling guilty already. "You know he doesn't like Steve very much." 

"That's just because he feels protective," Sharon assured him on her way back to the kitchen counter. "He doesn't want you to get hurt and he doesn't know Steve yet." 

"He knows him a little," Brock argues, because he couldn't let it go. 

"He thinks you deserve the best," she said, turning up a stack of paper napkins from the back of a cupboard. "He would give everyone a hard time at first." 

"But Steve isn't just anybody," Brock reminded her. "His relationship history makes him look worse than everyone else." 

"Everyone's relationship history looks bad on paper," Sharon just said. "Steve's, yours, mine. That's just how relationships are. There's always multiple sides and multiple opinions and a lot of hearsay involved." 

Brock knew his own relationship history didn't speak for him. Mostly, it highlighted his failures and insecurities, his tendency to run away once people had seen enough of those. But he knew that Jack's relationship history was as neat and tidy as they get without raising suspicion of omission. 

There was a girlfriend in highschool, the one to be sure, to try things with before confirming the inevitable. There were two ex-boyfriends that Brock knew of. One was a passionate first love at nineteen that ended in tears and the other a quiet classy low-key romance that lasted for seven years with a slender tall guy with curls and glasses who ended up working IT at O'Hare. He was the one getting Jack the job in airport security just six months before he would pack up and move out, leaving Jack during some premature midlife crisis to chase his dreams in Silicon Valley. 

But even six years later Brock still remembered him. Remembered sometimes catching the sight of them together, during lunch or just after a shift. Still remembered his own envious looks whenever he passed them by at the time. 

Then a few months later they broke up. And another year passed before he and Jack were stuck together on night shifts during a particular slow week in the course of which they first became tentative friends.

That same year Bucky showed up in Chicago of all places. 

Sure, there were a couple of dates ever since and there even were a handful of one night stands in Jack's history too. But that was it. How it was supposed to be. With something steady and meaningful in the middle, and some mistakes peppered around. 

Not like Steve. 

Not like Brock. Who had ever just tried to build his life around his mistakes. Barnes first and then half a dozen guys after that. Half a dozen guys with narrow hips and long hair. With disarming smiles and defiance in their eyes. Half a dozen other guys to make up for just one. Half a dozen failed relationships in a dozen years. 

It was Brock who had called them all quits once euphoria and novelty had worn off and he'd discovered that none of them were, in fact, the one. 

In the meantime, the one had decided to stay in Chicago after rushing into his thing with Wilson. 

That was when Brock had pulled the plug on his last attempt to replace him, deciding that he was done with James Buchanan Barnes and that he was forever going to refuse to acknowledge the impact he had had on his life. 

And that was why, until recently, there had been this quiet understanding between Brock and Jack, the simple knowledge after the glimpses they had gotten of their respective love life that they just weren't each other's types. 

A stupid assumption that had lasted for years, essential to their friendship but shaken since their night out. 

And maybe they wouldn't make the worst couple. Maybe they would make a decent couple. Possibly even a good one. 

But that didn't matter anymore, not with Steve in the picture. Not with Brock falling for him as hard as he had.

When Sharon opened the door to let Jack in, those thoughts reappeared though as it was clear that Jack had actually made an effort to look his best for tonight. 

Under his jacket he wore a simple black fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, some subtle product in his hair that kept the longer strands of out of his face but had the additional side effect of smelling really fucking amazing. 

Sharon hugged him and Jack kissed her cheek as she did. He nodded at Brock, squeezed his arm for a second. They've seen each other just hours ago. They would see each other again in less than twenty-four hours, Jack scheduled to work in the afternoon and Brock taking over for him in another night shift. So no matter the parts of Brock that wished otherwise, there was no need for a more heartfelt gesture. 

All the sentences Brock had juggled around in his head disappeared at once when Jack took one good look at him. 

"What's going on?" he asked, noticing something was wrong immediately. 

Brock inhaled, then fucked himself over and coughed over an overeager tongue, some misplaced spit and a dry throat. A deadly combination. 

Jack stepped up to his side, but instead of clapping Brock's back with full force, gently patted him down and then rubbed soothing circles over Brock's angry lungs with a warm hand. 

"I invited Steve, too," Sharon blurted, taking the opportunity of Brock being otherwise occupied. "It was super spontaneous," she added, reining herself back in. "He lives in the neighborhood." 

There was a beat of silence, of course, Brock's cough suffocating itself with panic and Jack's hand stilling on his back. 

"And you're okay with it?" Jack asked and it took Brock another second to grasp that he was being addressed. 

"I may have exaggerated about Steve this morning," he admitted quickly, wondering how much more sweat his shirt could go along with before it was ruined. "He's not been as dramatic as I made him out to be," he said, glancing back and forth between Sharon and Jack. "He's been pretty laid back actually." 

"Is this about setting Brock up?" Jack asked, focusing on Sharon. "He's over his little crush," he told her. His tone somewhere between annoyed and satisfied. 

"I'm not actually," Brock interjected, feeling his face heat up with the truth. "I'm-," he started, panicked, swallowed it down. "Into him," he finished, cringed over how stupid he sounded. "I mean, I like him." 

Jack watched the entire tragedy unfold with a sceptical expression. And Brock couldn't blame him. Given the way he talked about Steve, it was hard to believe he had actual feelings for the guy. 

"I'm in love with him," Brock corrected himself the same time as the door buzzed. 

The tension surged so painfully in Brock's body that all he could do was excuse himself to the bathroom with stammering words because he thought he was probably definitely going to throw up. 

He held himself steady with a firm grip around the sink, his heart beating so loud it drowned out all of the voices from the other room. 

Frozen in place, he forgot about his nausea, forgot about the lingering warmth of Jack's hand on his back, forgot about his prior need for company. 

Now, he just wanted to be alone and forget he'd ever gotten to know Steven the way he did. 

Fuck. 

He was getting angry now at himself for hiding away like this, for making such a big deal out of his own feelings. 

_Pathetic_ was the only word coming to mind. He was being awfully pathetic. 

He opened the tap and let some cold water run over his wrists and the back of his hands, hoping it would calm him. It didn't. Instead he noticed the edges of his fingernails, not too long yet, still within the realms of good enough for work, but certainly neither short nor smooth enough. Brock hated the sight of them like he hated the sight of everything about him today. 

It wasn't even just about aesthetics or some uptight standards he could blame Steve for. What bothered him was the knowledge that no man who would see his fingers today would wish for them to be inside him. 

And he knew Steve well enough to know that the same rang true for him. No matter how needy Brock would paint him. How reckless or desperate. 

His hands had gotten numb but angry red in the meantime and he finally turned off the water, catching his gaze in the mirror. He could see the hours of anxiety and those few minutes of panic written in the lines around his eyes. He could see his own sadness, recognized the familiar face of heartbreak. He hadn't lost Steve yet, the opposite was true, but so was the fact that Steve wouldn't ever love him back. Not quite right. 

He wouldn't ever long for Brock in the same way, wouldn't miss him in the same way, wouldn't want him in the same way. They were never going to share more than this. Sex and time spent together. 

The towel was soft in his hands and tenderly warmed the sore skin. He was well aware that he couldn't spend the entire evening hidden away in Sharon's bathroom and yet he began looking for reasons to maybe leave early instead. That was until he heard laughter coming from the other room. Not just any laughter but Steve's. 

And suddenly Brock was reminded at once that it was Steve spending time with his friends. Steve who had wanted to meet them. Who had wanted to see Brock. And it was enough to coax him out of his head and away from all those thoughts that so sadistically enjoyed calling this thing dead on arrival. 

As he stepped down the short hallway he made out more laughter and more voices, an easy calming happiness engulfing him even before he reached the living room. The casual atmosphere seeping into all corners of the apartment. 

"There he is," Jack said, draping his shoulder over the back of his armchair so he could take a look at Brock. 

He sat with his back to the corner from which Brock had emerged, but apparently he had managed to either sense or summon him. Brock wasn't sure which one he preferred. 

Steve sat next to Sharon on the sofa, an uncapped bottle of beer in front of him. As if he'd known all along about Brock's self-conscious worries, he was dressed down in a washed out gray hoodie that had a faint purple shadow but could have even been black in its better days and, although Brock had no doubt that they were an expensive brand, his jeans had a hole in one knee. 

It wasn't exactly like Steve to dress like that, especially since he'd been invited for the first time, so an ugly suspicion rose in Brock that he only managed to silence, not to suppress. 

"Sorry," he said, didn't know how to explain his absence or if he was even expected to. 

"Come sit," Sharon said right away with a beaming smile before making more room between herself and Steve. "We've been only comparing our pending Thanksgiving dread so far." 

"Jack won," Steve informed him with a smile of his own. He sat forward and reached for his beer just as Brock had started to make his way to the appointed spot on the couch. When Brock hovered for a second between sofa and coffee table as to not walk into Steve's outstretched arm, Steve looked up at him for a second, then softly brushed the knuckles of his hand that held the bottle now over the side of Brock's thigh, just above his knee. He sat back afterwards and even tucked his legs and feet in for Brock to squeeze through and settle beside him. To Brock's surprise Steve turned to him a second time then, for another smile, and Brock's heart started racing once more with the unexpected acknowledgement. 

Brock mirrored the smile though it hardly reached his eyes and the little head tilt of Steve's that asked if he was okay almost broke his heart all over again. 

"Neither of them have relatives around to spend it with," Jack explained and shrugged as if he wouldn't necessarily agree that it was the shortest stick. From his spot in the armchair, he had been watching the exchange. 

"Steve brought wine," Sharon jumped in, nudging Brock by the shoulder. She seemed determined to keep the conversation going, no matter where. "You want some?" 

"I'll just have a beer," Brock said, trying to get up when Sharon stopped him. 

"I'll get it for you," she told him, already on her feet. 

"Take one from the freezer," he called past Steve to remind her, stretching his neck out against the backrest. He caught Steve checking him out for a second before he put his drink back on the table. 

Although Brock hated to admit it, he was happily basking in the attention just as he'd done the first night at Wilson's birthday. 

Somehow he had just assumed that things had changed. That after successfully flirting his way into Brock's bed, Steve wouldn't ever be openly affectionate like that again. His text messages hadn't quite reflected this level of interest, though he had never rejected Brock either and had always been receptive to whatever Brock had needed from him at the time. The only time Steve had been somewhat cold towards Brock was at the airport, but then again it was Brock who had told him they shouldn't ever been seen together out in public in a way that was open to interpretation. 

And just last night, Brock had admitted to Steve that he didn't care anymore and today he had invited him to meet his friends. So none of this should have been surprising and yet it was. 

Maybe none of Steve's gestures were romantic, yet all of them were painfully intimate and Brock wouldn't mind being allowed to hold Steve's hand or put his head on Steve's shoulder once it was getting late and everyone would be tired enough to get cozy in their seats. 

He didn't know if he was allowed, wouldn't for the life of him dare to make a guess. 

"There you go," Sharon said, startling Brock with her voice, and handed him the beer over Steve's head. 

"Thanks," he mumbled, tried to focus more on the conversation instead of the guy next to him. 

His- … his something. 

His lover, his fuckbuddy.

His maybe-boyfriend. 

His whatever as long as he was here and kept doing what he was doing. 

He realized suddenly that he had been staring at Steve's lips, watching them move. All the while his thoughts had drowned out every sound and every word. But lucky for Brock, Steve was busy looking at Jack as he spoke, both of them wrapped up in conversation. 

"Now, I can't confirm if that's really how it happened, but Bucky insists every word of the story is true," Steve finished what he'd been saying earlier and next to him Sharon started laughing and so did Jack and Steve just grinned and shrugged as Brock watched him happily. He smiled, didn't care that he had no idea what his friends' joy was about as it wasn't what he was smiling about. 

"It does sound like something he would do, so I'm tempted to believe him," Jack agreed, then he glanced over at Brock who met his gaze this time around. 

For a second Jack frowned, not in confusion but as if he was trying to recall something he'd forgotten and Brock knew instinctively that he tried to remember the reason why, until twenty-four hours ago, Brock couldn't stand the mention of Barnes's name. But Brock had never told him and assuming they had history was too big of a leap when a more recent incident was so much more likely. 

"I had such a good time last year," Sharon said as Brock balanced a handful of chips into his lap to distract from the fact that he wasn't paying attention and had nothing to add. "But after what happened I don't really hold out hope that I'm going to be invited ever again," she added, finally giving Brock a hint what all their talk was about. Barnes's Christmas party. 

"I think Nat has forgotten all about it by now," Steve assured her, but he didn't sound as convincing as he usually did, so Brock subtly raised an eyebrow as the details of the conversation still went above his head. "Either way she doesn't hold grudges," he added, but Brock, despite being clueless, didn't believe him still. 

"She can be pretty scary though," Sharon argued.

"So can you," Brock remarked. He glanced up and over to share a knowing look with Jack, who met his eyes, nodded and smirked. Then made a fist and slowly punched the air in front of him. 

Sharon subtly gave Brock the middle finger, then brought its side up to her lips. "Shh," she said, then grinned as Brock shook his head under Steve's curious gaze. 

Together they had more drinks, talked a lot about work, flight travel and recent changes in the industry. All of the tension had left Brock's body within the first hour and he allowed himself to talk more, gesture widely and make his opinions known. 

Sharon visibly enjoyed having all of them over, engaging Steve with innocent questions and bickering with Brock and Jack whenever an opportunity presented itself. Later lounging and laughing with one foot tucked under Brock's thigh and the other leg draped across it. 

It reminded Brock of last night, of his own feet on Jack's bed and hooked under his ankles. Another look was passed between them, as if Jack recalled the same moment just then. 

And maybe that old assumption was put to question once more, the idea that nothing could ever happen between them. Just naturally so. 

Other things had happened though and just hours ago he had looked Rollins in the eye and told him he was in love with someone else. 

With Steve. 

Who had just followed Jack's lead in sharing their best-ofs of Chicago's secret spots, both having lived in the city far longer than Brock and Sharon. 

Brock listened to their back and forth, avoiding to look at either of them though. Instead, he busied himself with more chips and then with paying most of his attention to Sharon who had taken to google some of the locations in disbelief of their existence. 

Brock could feel the heat of Steve's thigh but it wasn't touching his own yet. Steve had his drink balanced on it though, holding onto it loosely with four fingers while he used a lone one to vaguely mirror the gestures of his other hand. 

Just like that first night at the restaurant,-- once it was clear the evening would last above what simple etiquette required and once Sharon had presented him with all possible options--, Steve had switched drinks after a second beer. He was currently working on providing a review of some fancy whiskey that Sharon could forward to her aunt, who had gifted her the bottle months ago. 

Brock's dad was a whiskey drinker too, more so than Steve who didn't care about spoiling the drink with ice. Not that it mattered to anyone in the room. 

Sharon and Jack were sharing the wine that Steve had brought between them and Brock's beer stood abandoned and out of reach on the coffee table. 

It wasn't because he wanted to taste the whiskey himself or because he was so desperate to put his lips on Steve's drink that Brock reached out to take the glass from him. It was because Steve's casually careless grip on it gave him the kind of anxiety that made him annoyed first and foremost. 

He hadn't really thought it through, not until his fingertips were already brushing past the rim of the glass when he was suddenly aware of what he was doing and his heart began racing anew. 

But Steve just let him have it, and if Brock senses didn't betray him, even helped hand it over by lifting it just half an inch or for Brock's fingers to get a better hold. 

The whole thing was a tentative and small yet entirely sincere miracle so that Brock lifted the glass all the way into his own lap, where he held it above Sharon's ankle to just stare at it in wonder. 

Surely there were some rules, lines that weren't to be crossed, but they seemed to be less strict, less categorical than Brock had figured. 

It was becoming more and more obvious that Steve acted under the presumption that a general knowledge of the nature of their relationship existed among his friends. That the fact that they knew each other in more intimate ways wasn't a secret any longer and that they were allowed to act accordingly. Or at least, allowed to treat each other in a similar way they would if no one else was around. 

Minus the sex, of course. 

Minus the hate and the insults and Brock's love confessions. Those things were for more private moments. 

"How come I've never heard of this place and it has hundreds of five star reviews?" Sharon asked, pulling Brock's attention back into the conversation. 

Both Jack and Steve laughed over Sharon's confusion and Brock took a sip of the whiskey to once again hide the fact that he hadn't been listening. 

"You like it?" Steve asked quietly as Sharon started to read from some of the reviews she'd been talking about. 

Startled, Brock almost spilled the drink, his hand shaking slightly with the feeling of being caught. But Steve was just patiently watching him, his expression calm and content as he let his head rest against the sofa. 

Brock shrugged and handed the glass back, silently hoping Steve would hold onto it more safely from now on, but too insecure to tell him so. 

"Do you?" he asked, wondering if he was supposed to read more into this exchange than opinions on a specific brand of whiskey. 

Steve gave a nod, then brought the drink up to his own lips. Afterwards he nudged the glass back into Brock's grip and used his now free hand to tug gently on Brock's sleeve, his fingers starting to play with the ripped seam. 

Brock watched him, wondering when he'd stop and only realized when Steve spoke again that he wouldn't. That he was just absently fidgeting now, seeking contact even. Connection. 

"Some of these have got to be fake," he said, looking at Sharon. "I'm not saying the place isn't amazing, but it's always packed and if you don't know the owner, good luck getting in." 

"And their prices are insane," Jack agreed, shaking his head and then settling deeper into the cushion. 

"I'm done going out anyway," Brock announced and exhaled contently. "I'm fucking forty," he added. "I want to watch whatever episode of Law and Order is on and then go to bed." 

"Sounds about right," Steve said at the same time as protest erupted from either side of them. 

"Oh, come on," Jack howled at the same time as Sharon gasped after yelling "what?" at him. 

"That's just bad taste," she added, withdrawing her legs and crossing them in front of her once more so she could better lean forward and get all up in his face about it. "You're coming out with us again whether you like it or not," she told him, almost threateningly definitive. "Maybe we'll even go to this place that google user Scott Lang called _'an_ _unparalleled_ _world_ _of fun'__,"_ she quoted, reading off the screen of her phone. 

"Please, no," Brock begged over the sound of Jack's laughter. 

"You can bring Steve," Sharon allowed, locking her phone and tucking it beneath her knee. 

For a second, panic took hold of Brock, the fear that Steve would bring up the last time they'd all gone out, the time he'd drunk texted first and then shown up hung-over and gross at his door. It was easy enough to put it together, the friendly kiss and the friendly hand on his ass. 

But if Steve drew the connection, he didn't bother to voice his discovery. 

"It's not the worst club," was all that Steve said instead. He pointedly took the glass from Brock to drink to his statement before he returned it to Brock's hand afterwards. Then Steve's fingers found their way back to Brock's turned wrist, playing with another loose end of a torn thread. 

Brock smiled to himself, wished the moment would last, wished this evening would be representative of the future. 

"I wouldn't do that to him," Brock told Sharon, bringing his eyes up from Steve's hand. Although he wanted Steve around always, he almost definitely meant what he said. 

"And deprive him from an unparalleled world of fun?" Rollins asked, watching Brock over the rim of his wine glass. "That's just rude." 

"It's considerate," Brock argued although he didn't know why he bothered to fight for his stance. Maybe he was determined to give Steve an out, to not be put on the spot, be treated as nothing more than a plus one. Maybe because he was desperate to draw a line himself. Or to keep one foot out the door. 

"I'm with Jack on this one," Steve said. Either willing to take on whatever role was given to him tonight or suspiciously eager to go to that club. 

Jack held Brock's gaze for a long moment before he grinned and turned his head to give Steve an appreciative nod. 

"You just had to throw yourself down the rabbit hole I was trying to save you from, didn't you?" Brock asked, deciding to focus on Steve instead of worrying about exchanging cryptic messages with Rollins. 

Steve's head was leaning against the backrest once more and as he turned his head to the side he looked tired but smiled. 

"Because he has good taste," Sharon stated, cutting their little moment short. 

"Exactly," Steve agreed with her, but his eyes were still on Brock.

It was after midnight when Jack first yawned and Sharon lost that fight against her body's instinct to mirror it. It was when Steve politely noted the time and that he'd probably overstayed his welcome. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sharon told him, setting her glass aside and straightening her back. "It was great having you." 

Brock sat up at the edge of the couch to fight his own exhaustion and stacked a couple of plates and bowls in front of him to give his hands something to do. Then he looked back over his shoulder at Steve who was just about to get up, but lingered once he noticed Brock's gaze. 

Sharon and Jack had shuffled about, stirred by the prospect of sleep, and both were on their feet already, reaching for empty glasses and bottles to clean up. 

Steve and Brock held out, keeping their thoughts in, both of them aware they were waiting for the others to be a couple of steps away. 

Then Steve smiled at him once more. 

"Thank you," Brock said quietly. "For coming tonight." 

"It was fun," Steve assured him. Another moment passes of them just looking at each other. "Are you coming?" Steve asked finally, offering in question what Brock had hoped for but wouldn't have dared to put into words. 

"I have to be at the airport later tomorrow afternoon," Brock said. "Night shift," he added, hoping Steve was still sober and awake enough to peel off all the layers of information he'd given him just there. 

He needed sleep and he needed to look decent so they could either fuck right away for Brock to get home as soon as possible or they could sleep first and fuck later, but Steve would have to put up with him for most of the day. 

"Do you have to go home before work?" Steve wondered, making it somewhat clear that he didn't need Brock to get out of his hair straight away. 

Brock shook his head, knowing he could ask Jack to check on Crossbones after his own shift and just feed her more of the good stuff in apology for the wait. 

"You sure?" Steve asked, noticing Brock's efforts to accommodate the change in plans. 

"Can you give me a minute?" Brock asked, looking over to where Jack and Sharon had started rinsing the glasses before carefully sorting them into the dishwasher, slowing down their efforts most likely in order to give Brock and Steve some privacy. 

"Sure," Steve said, tucking his feet back in as Brock reached for the stack of dishes still in front of him and carried them over the others. 

"You okay?" Sharon asked once he'd put down the plates and bowls next to her on the counter. 

"I'm gonna leave," he just said, looking guilty over at Rollins who refused to meet his eyes this time and focused instead almost fervently on the task at hand. 

Sharon smiled at him and squeezed his arm. "More space for us," she just said, confirming for Brock that Jack would soon be getting all the sleep he deserved. "Though we'll always scoot over for you, you know that, right?" 

"I do," he assured her, leaned in to kiss her cheek for a change. "Take good care of him, okay?" he added, just for Sharon to hear. She nodded. 

Because he couldn't just leave, he stepped up into Jack's space from the side and draped an arm across his shoulder. 

"You're kidding yourself if you think this is going to work out for you," Jack said quietly before Brock had a chance to speak. 

Taken aback, Brock pulled his arm off him and just stared stupidly with no comeback at hand. 

"The way you look at him?" Jack added, his hands still with the dishes in the sink but at least he turned his head to finally face Brock now. "The way you think he looks at you? It's not the same." 

Still frozen in his spot, Brock took in his words without processing them, hurt and anger mingling in all his organs, his hands faintly trembling at his sides. 

"I'm sorry I lied to you," was all he could get out, because none of the things Jack had said made any fucking sense. His long owed apology was the only sentence that made it past his lips, leaving him feeling only marginally lighter. 

He turned then to give Sharon another smile, her eyes almost teary when she looked back at him, before he walked away. 

* * *

The cold air didn't really help to freshen up or clear his mind. Although he was glad to get a chance to walk off his anger, he still found himself cursing his choice to go with Steve. His mind was still with Jack and what he'd said. Tainting everything that had happened tonight. How perfect it had been. How perfect Steve had been.

He briefly contemplated trying to go for Steve's hand, but it was only a short walk over to his apartment and he had a feeling Steve would brush him off. 

Once they were all the way inside his apartment, Brock felt most of the cold leaving his body while some of it remained in dangerous places. 

Steve looked different here, body and face somewhat closed off and wrung out. All of his social magic spilled dry. 

"I love you," Brock said, watching Steve on his way to the bedroom from several feet behind. 

Steve stopped, turned his head to the side, but not enough to look back. "Third night in a row," he told Brock, lingered for a moment. 

A lot went unspoken between them in that moment, a lot was buried to remain unheard. 

Then Steve resumed his way to the bedroom and Brock walked up behind him, slinging his arms around his waist. 

"This isn't you," he said quietly, almost whispering into Steve's ears before he kissed a spot of tender skin behind them, running his hands slowly down the front of his body. "I want these off," he added, half-hard already from all the sudden physical contact he was allowed to engage in. 

His fingers gripped the hem to tug it away from the button of his jeans when they brushed against Steve's bare skin beneath. Ignited by the contact, he slipped his hand fully beneath the fabric, fitting his palm over Steve's stomach. He forced the other past the waistband of the jeans, just off the side of Steve's hipbone where there was a little room to squeeze past, already guessing that he'll find more naked skin there. 

"Did you lose your boxers?" he asked, closing his eyes and pulling Steve closer into his embrace. 

"Not really," Steve told him and Brock knew right away that there was a story behind it, but that it wasn't the one he used to worry about. 

Brock freed his hand from Steve's pants so he could open the button and fly at last. 

Steve's breaths were calm and steady, just as his body was in Brock's arms, only his cock was soft and slow to respond when he took hold of it. 

But Steve didn't move away from Brock's hands, leaned into them instead. Brock could tell from the way Steve allowed himself to be touched and moved, from his patient stance, that he was paying more attention now. Maybe already tuning into what was going to happen. Into what Brock was tempted to do to him. To both of them. 

Brock was feeling desperate. Desperate to have power over things he couldn't control. Desperate to verbally claw at a relationship that was moving into unconventional ways. Talk down the guy he loved, because he couldn't stand that he hadn't loved him all his life. Angry about his wasted years and unable to name the things he actually longed for. Let alone ask for them properly. 

To just hold Steve and sleep in his arms. 

With his one hand he pushed Steve's jeans down until they pooled around his ankles, keeping the other on his stomach for the moment, the beat of his heart on his fingertips. 

Steve stood as still as a sculpture, naked from the waist down but didn't seem to give a fuck about it. 

"Whose is this?" Brock asked, tugging again at the sweater, balling what he could grab in his fist and pushing it upwards a little, ready to help Steve take it off. 

"Bucky's," Steve admitted, making Brock let go of it at once. 

"Barnes's, huh?" he echoed and retrieved his other hand from Steve's stomach. 

"Yeah, Bucky's," Steve said again. 

"Good," Brock told him. The alcohol and Steve's slowly hardening erection gave him the confidence to keep spinning this tale. Allow it to really be good. Feel good. 

And maybe Steve, too, was aware that Brock did try, that he wanted to believe it good. Maybe it was why he let himself be moved when Brock pushed Steve gently towards the bed by his hips, twisting the hood of the sweater a couple of times until he could use it to hold Steve close as he followed him. 

"Because you're going to fuck me in it?" Steve asked, pointing out what was blatantly obvious. 

"Worse," Brock started, getting the sweater out of the way with his grip so he could put his mouth on the back of Steve's neck for a second. "I'm going to make love to you in it," he added. Let Steve feel every word. 

"Brock I-," Steve started, his hips squirming with either discomfort or arousal. "I'm not really prepared." 

"For what," Brock asked, although he knew. He knew and it surprised him. Something Brock couldn't deny. Maybe he had jumped to conclusions.

"Sex," Steve just said though it was hardly sufficient. But Brock decided not to push him. 

"Don't worry," he assured him. He let go of the fabric and with a hand on either side of Steve's waist, got him to turn around. 

By now, he kissed Steve with familiarity, with comfort, with ease, though they hardly kissed when they fucked. Hardly kissed before or after. Rarely kissed just for the sake of it. But Brock found that it didn't particularly matter. That what mattered was the fact that they kissed at all and that they kissed each other. 

He put his lips closer to the side of Steve's head, unable to look him in the eyes. "The only thing your hole is good for is to be looked at anyway," he told him, gathering some more courage before he met Steve's gaze again. 

For a moment it seems, they were both looking at each other for the first time. And yet none of this bullshit was news. Brock was about to apologize when Steve surprised him once more. 

"So?" he just asked, staring Brock down. 

It was disarming and impossible for Brock to not want him more for that. He pulled Steve into another kiss, forgetting all about sex while simultaneously falling deeper into it anyway. He liked the feeling of Steve's lips against his own, liked the way their bodies were aligned, the way they shared it all, space and saliva, anticipation and arousal, breathing against each other, cheeks hot and skin flushed until it was time to let go, time to break apart. To leave things be before they'd be spoiled. 

Brock was still paying attention to Steve right there in front of him, paying mind to his reaction, when he unbuttoned his own pants to take his dick out. He even straightened the hem of Steve's hoodie with the back of his fingers, before following with his cock. Making sure to leave a trail of precome. He had to get on his fucking tiptoes to do so, but two could play at this game and tonight it was Brock's turn. 

Steve didn't really react at all. Just watched it happening, but he was hard now just below where Brock had gone to work. 

"I'm sorry," Brock apologized finally. Not for the mess he'd just made. "I don't know why it feels good to say these things." 

He only knew it made him a terrible person, a terrible boyfriend, terrible in bed. 

But Steve was just shaking his head in a partly bored, partly annoyed sort of way. "I trust you not to take it too far," he told Brock. "And so far you haven't." 

It possibly wasn't the most honorable thing to be trusted with, but Brock still felt a rush of relief with the assurance.

"None of it is true," Brock said, admitting to it again. His tone was more serious again. His intentions had never been to hurt Steve.

"And if?" Steve asked, same sentiment as before. Brock was tempted to kiss him again for it. 

"Then nothing changes," Brock said. He didn't have to think about it. "Let me take care of this," Brock offered, stepping deeper into Steve's space although it was hardly possible. "Of you."

"I'm fine," Steve said, but he didn't look all that fine. He looked a little disheveled and that faint shadow of exhaustion lingered on his face. His body just looked like it wanted to get off. 

"I'm actually not too bad at vanilla sex," Brock informed Steve although he really had nothing to base this assumption on. "We should try it sometimes," he added, knowing the offer was long overdue. Long overdue and yet it didn't entice him too much. Not with Steve right there. Not when anything and everything was possible. 

He had fantasized about it before. The great taming of Captain Rogers. Now Brock fantasized about setting him free again, letting him get back to his nature. 

"We probably should," Steve told him and Brock was reminded that some things needed to be chased off to find their way back into the wild. 

"Or next time, you can bend me over and call me a whore," Brock suggested, knowing he didn't sound half as funny as he had hoped he did. 

"I can deal with it just fine," Steve told him, sounding somewhat convincing, but Brock didn't know whether it was because he wanted to be bent over instead or whether he still had hesitations about doing the same to Brock. 

"Nothing wrong with getting off on it," Brock said quietly. It was just some food for thought. A reminder to both of them. 

Steve looked at him, still in the crumpled hoodie, still with naked legs and his hard cock between them. He didn't say anything though. Instead left Brock hanging on what he'd tried to just imply. 

"I mean, it's supposed to get you off," Brock clarified somewhat helplessly. "That's the whole point of saying this stuff during sex, no?" he stammered with no real aim or direction. 

"Is it?" Steve asked him, an eyebrow raised. 

"Yeah," Brock tried to assure him. He didn't know anymore who he was addressing, Steve or his own conscience.   
"With me, yes. I mean ever since-," he cut himself of. The reminder wasn't going to help him with this. "I think it can be." 

They looked at each other for a moment, both of them in their bubble of solitude that had begun to merge. 

"I think it can be," he said again, nervously, although he knew it didn't mean anything unless they wanted it to mean something. 

If Steve wanted it to mean something. 

"Not everything has to be about sex," Steve said, but his hand was on Brock's dick, stroking him slowly with loose fingers. It was the best fucking thing and Brock couldn't keep the shudder escaping him with his breaths, rocking through his body. 

He loved him and he wanted Steve to have him, to use him, to occupy him in all the ways Brock had wanted to be with him. He wanted Steve to have all of him, down to those thoughts he couldn't explain, those flickers of emotion that couldn't ever be named. 

"What's it going to be about instead?" Brock asked, glancing back and forth between Steve's hand and his face. He liked watching Steve working him over, wondering now why he hadn't let him more often. Asked him to do so more often. 

"I like your friends," Steve told him and Brock had to close his eyes for a second to shut out the thoughts that came rushing back at the mention. "I've had a good night," Steve went on, unaware of the small turmoil he had caused. "I don't want it to be accidentally ruined." 

"You mean you don't want me to accidentally ruin it?" Brock asked, unable to skip the accusation he felt was obvious. 

"I can get you off like this," Steve offered but Brock shook his head. 

"It's not enough," he told him. It wasn't fair. Obviously, Steve's hand was enough. His body was reacting to his touch, almost aggressively so. His dick felt tighter and heavier as usual while his internal organs seemed to be shifting and giving way to the numbness of the impending pleasure, while his ears were filled with his own heartbeat, breaths and sounds of tender desperation. 

"Why?" Steve asked. He always asked. He was always questioning, debating, fighting. Had his eyes on Brock's cock in his own hand. 

"Because you're still wearing his sweater," Brock admitted. He watched and waited until Steve looked up. "And I like it." 

That seemed to change something within Steve, seemed to hit just the right spot. He slowly let go off Brock and took a step back. He held up his hands as if to signal his willingness to take it off but Brock shook his head. 

"I know you didn't fuck him, but you might as well have," Brock said, reaching out for another fistful of fabric. "You might as well have fucked all your friends," he went on as Steve shuddered. Another nerve hit. "Bet you thought about it all day, didn't you?" 

Steve seemed frozen in place for a second but he was pliable when Brock steered him back to the bed. 

It was just two or three inches too low for Steve to bend over it comfortably and Brock could tell Steve's muscles burned as the jeans around his ankles stopped him from widening his stance enough to accommodate the angle. 

"Of course, you did," Brock replied to his own hideous question. The thought appealed to him too much to let it go. "You can't help yourself. Bet you had a great time and so did they, thinking of you like this too."

He let go off the hoodie, trusting Steve to stay in place now anyway if he wanted to see this through. He parted Steve's cheeks with both hands on his ass, trying to prove his point from before. 

He had done it so many times by now, had become so accustomed to Steve's body that it didn't feel like any big deal anymore. 

Steve didn't move, didn't protest despite his earlier concerns. 

"Don't worry," Brock assured him still. His dick reacted to the sight just as his fingers, a twitch of nerves here and there and the immediate leap to memory and fantasy alike. 

But neither were going inside tonight and he felt oddly at peace with that. 

He spat onto Steve's hole nonetheless, taking Steve by surprise, who flinched in return and somehow whined but otherwise didn't move or speak. 

Brock waited patiently, watching the trail of his own spit as it ran down until it disappeared between Steve's thighs, then pushed his cock between them, thinking there was no reason to entirely waste the makeshift lubrication and the perfectly fine friction that came with it. 

"Don't think I have to tell you that even this is tighter than your ass," Brock said, rocking back and forth. His own voice disgusted him, but his dick was as full and heavy as it had ever been, its head grazing against Steve's balls, his own already tightening against his body. 

Brock braced himself on Steve's shoulders for his stronger thrusts as he noticed Steve struggling to keep his balance and to withstand being aimlessly pushed around. Even this started to feel familiar by now. 

After a minute or so Steve's breaths turned into shallow grunts, pulling Brock from where he'd gotten lost into thoughts for a second. 

"Showing up without boxers and in another man's sweater," Brock said through his own faster breaths. "Should send you walking back to your friends after this," he added, pushing himself off Steve and wrapping a hand around his cock instead. 

It was barely wet enough from spit, sweat and his own precome, but Brock didn't care. He moved one knee up the bed for better aim and jerked himself off, not with anger and annoyance, but with arousal so thick it was sickening. 

"Then they can all take a turn," he rambled on. Words slipping, one after the other, although he had stopped listening to himself. "See if that will finally be enough for you." 

There was a knot in his stomach, instinctive knowledge he had chosen to ignore. All he could see was some faint satisfaction, far off there was a finish line that would forgive. That would forgive all his words. 

He was happy for god's sake. He wasn't out for blood. 

His dick was aching just the same as last night, his body couldn't keep up with the violent ways his love came bubbling up ever so often lately. 

Everything he wanted to do with Steve these days was going up and beyond every sane thing he used to fantasize of when he was alone. 

He wanted Steve to realize now that they were the same. That he was worse even. Had always been. That he was the grotesque part of them, the ugly side to Steve's beautiful self. 

As if Steve hadn't known all along. 

"Tell them this is from me, yeah?" he said, but his words were rough and his voice was raspy. "Tell them they can have you, but you always come to me first and you always come back here." 

He helped himself with his other hand on his balls, looking down at Steve just how he liked it, the sensation of his own touch better now when Steve was around. Bearing witness to this side of him that was no better than the side of Steve's hatred. 

"You want to offer yourself up so badly, then I'll be doing it for you. That's how it works, isn't it?" 

He could see Steve shuddering, his trembling thighs, the vulnerable stance. 

"Would that make you happy?" Brock asked. "They can all make you happy," he told Steve, his muscles tightened and he had to bite his lip for a second to keep from coming. "You hear that?" he started again, knowing well enough that Steve wasn't going to answer. "I want them to make you happy," he forced out, overwhelmed with the fact that Steve wasn't going to love him back. 

Ever. 

"You fucking piece of perfection," Brock said. His brain was unable to produce any insults at all. "Fucking beautiful person," he almost whined. "You fucking s-," he stuttered. 

It was no use. His stomach was revolting, pulling his tongue away from his mouth. 

"Sex creature," he said instead, jerking himself off almost furious now. "You independent bastard." 

He was close, so close, but he wasn't close enough yet to have it all out there. 

"I like the thought of all of them making you happy," he admitted. "I want them to and I want you to."

His voice got caught in his throat and all his words were scattered as he came all over Steve's back, his come hitting the sweater, a washed out creamy mess over the washed out fabric, slowly seeping between the threads. 

_I want you to do whatever you want to do_, he thought, but couldn't speak it. It was too much, too powerful for even that second it crossed his mind. Everything he believed in suddenly unrecognizable to him. 


	13. Chapter 13

They had gotten cleaned up in silence, Steve by himself in the bathroom until Brock had joined him hesitantly. They had talked before. About the things Brock had said and what they had meant. What they were going to do with them. 

Brock was ready to let go of their rules, ready to let go of Steve although he loved him more than ever. It fucked with his head. 

He knew what had brought it on when Steve had asked him. It was what Jack had said before they had left. That Brock looked at Steve differently from the way Steve looked at him. 

One of them had a foot out the door. But it wasn't Steve. One of them was waiting for things to fall apart. For reasons to look elsewhere. For love. Or had already started looking without realizing it. 

The issue wasn't that Brock was never going to be enough for Steve, that Steve would never want him the same way. The problem was that Steve wouldn't ever be enough, no matter how modest he behaved, no matter how perfect of a boyfriend he made himself out to be. It wouldn't be enough because what Brock was looking for was somebody who felt like him. Who missed him in return and got jealous from time to time. Who could relate to insecurities, to awkwardness, to repressed feelings. 

There was no use, keeping Steve on a tight leash when Brock himself was wandering about. Part of him was beginning to toy with the idea, was beginning to like it. 

The thought of Steve sleeping with someone else didn't make him angry like it used to. Didn't drive him crazy like it used to. 

He could allow Steve to do his thing knowing he'll come back home afterwards. Knowing he'll come back to Brock. 

All the while, Brock could allow himself to pursue other things or let things unfold that were long overdue. 

In the picture he painted, he too would come home to Steve afterwards, loved and cared for by another and with Steve still by his side at night. Part of him liked to pretend it was possible. That they could have it all and make it work. 

When they were lying next to each other in the dark, Brock kissed Steve as long and thoroughly as he should have before. Wrapping all of Steve he could reach and was allowed to into his arms. Steve kissed him back, took charge eventually like he always liked best, and ended up settled behind Brock with one arm draped over his waist. 

It was the best feeling Brock had ever come across. He wanted to tell Steve once more that he loved him, but before he could say something, he'd already fallen asleep. 

They woke up only in the early afternoon which was good for work and his night shift but Brock wasn't even surprised that Steve had needed some excessive amount of rest too. 

He still seemed slightly off to Brock on most days and although Brock could bear taking the blame for it, he could still tell it was more than being kept up for sex. 

Brock took his time relishing in the quiet and lazy way they spent their first hour awake. He reached out for Steve whenever he wanted, his arms, his hands, his fingertips. Steve never once protested, never pulled back from the touch. It seemed that he was instead enjoying the contact too. 

"I wish I could stay," Brock told him, hoping it was okay to admit to it. 

Steve looked at him for the first time since they've woken up, looked at Brock for a long time. So long that Brock started to feel uneasy about what he'd said. 

"I was always looking forward to leaving," Steve said eventually. "I've always loved piloting more than being here." 

There was another pause, shorter this time, but Brock could tell there was something important happening in Steve's head. He was working on something. 

"But?" Brock tried to prompt gently. 

"But now I think if I didn't go, I wouldn't miss it as much," Steve told him. Although Brock couldn't relate to it really, he could still tell it wasn't easy for him to share this. 

"Is Steven Rogers becoming more homey?" Brock asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. The truth was he didn't know what answer he wanted to hear. To a forty year old part of him the idea of a _yes_ seemed like a dream come true. But to a two days old part of him, a _no_ felt more appealing. 

"I don't know," Steve said. It was a good compromise, because neither did Brock. He chose instead to kiss Steve, assure him of at least one thing. 

While Steve was in the shower, Brock got dressed and ready to head for work. The sleeve of his sweater was ruined for good but Brock hoped it would make it until he got home tomorrow morning. Reluctantly he pulled on his own shirt again and the jeans with the coffee stain. 

He probably could have asked Steve to borrow something of his, but he didn't want to be wearing his clothes while he talked to Jack. If he was lucky, he'd find a spare shirt in his locker. 

He was about to leave when Steve stepped back into the bedroom, dried off but naked with only his hair damp. 

"See you when you get back?" Brock tried, not really knowing what to do. Usually it was Steve who left him behind not the other way around. 

Steve nodded, looking over to the tangled sheets that were hiding the mess they had made just half an hour ago. 

Brock couldn't help imagine Steve climbing back into it for a second round, getting himself off the same way Brock had. 

"I'm gonna miss this," he said, nodding towards the bed. "I'm gonna miss you." 

"Me too," Steve said although Brock hadn't expected a reply. Let alone this one. He smiled at him. 

"I'll better head out," he told him. "Or else I'd be tempted to call in sick." He would have no one to cover for him though, not with the mood Jack had been in yesterday. 

He still had to ask Jack for a favor anyway, beg him to check on Crossbones and hope that the effects of the way they had parted last night wouldn't reach Jack's view on a cat he always seemed to love. 

Brock didn't need to look or ask for him at work though as Jack basically ran into him even before he'd reach the staff lockers. 

Jack stopped abruptly, frozen in his spot and just looked at him. It wasn't like that morning after Wilson's birthday, where Jack had watched him with curiosity, expecting some good gossip and a light-hearted scandal. 

Now he looked at him in disgust. 

And there was little to debate or lie about last night. What Brock did with Steve was no longer a secret. 

"I get it, you hate him," Brock said immediately. His new strategy was to face this situation head on. 

Jack shook his head. "Don't you get it?" he asked. "I don't give a fuck about him." 

"I know," Brock said immediately. He didn't want Jack to go on. Not here. Not yet. "I know," he told him again, his tone heavier this time around. 

Jack looked at him, his face was tense. He was stressed, annoyed, helpless. 

"Listen," Brock started again, "we're going to talk about this, okay? But we're going to talk about it later." 

Jack let his gaze fall to the ground, but he nodded. 

"Can you do me a favor?" Brock asked. "Can you step by at mine and feed Crossbones on your way home?" 

"Sure," Jack said, but his tone said '_Are you kidding__ me?_'. 

"I'm sorry," Brock said, apologizing for the elephant in the room. The fact that he had slept with Steve last night, hadn't even bothered to go home earlier today and was now relying on Jack cleaning up his messes. 

"So you're really in love with him?" Jack asked, but it wasn't really a question. 

"Yes," Brock said determined. Felt it in every bone. "Not exclusively though," he added. The semi-public admission didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. 

With that Jack's eyes were back on him. "What are you saying?" he asked, looking taller, broader, more stern than ever. 

Brock ran a hand over his face and scratched a spot behind his ear. "I'm saying-, I'm asking," he started anew, "that it's not just me, right? Noticing that there's more going on here?" 

"Here?" Jack repeated sceptically. 

"Between us," Brock said finally. 

"I think you're asking too much," Jack replied. His expression fell and revealed something like sadness, something like hurt. 

"I don't know, maybe," Brock admitted. "I'm not sure, but I feel like we could work it out. Though I have no idea yet how." Brock turned to check that they were still alone before he went on. "He's never going to feel the same, so I have to figure something out." 

"Or let him go," Jack offered. 

"You've spent an evening with him," Brock started, knowing his argument was going to be a risk. "You really think that I should? Or that it's easily done?"

"Do you really think it's a good idea?" Jack asked, looking genuinely concerned. There was more in his look though than worrying about someone getting their heart broken. There was contempt there too, the old habit both of them shared. All the things they had thought of Steve before and had said about him. Those year old opinions that were so hard to shed or change. 

"It's the only road I see myself going down," Brock admitted. He wasn't ready yet to compromise. To pick a side or make a choice. Or maybe he wasn't ready anymore. Willing anymore to do just that. 

Jack looked right past Brock for a second, his lips tight as he considered it. "So he's a part of your life now? Our lives?" Jack wondered. "Just like that?" 

"I don't know how else to do it," Brock said. "Without you. I don't know how to love him and be with him on my own." 

Their eyes were locked for a while, Brock's words hanging in the silence between them. 

"You're not on your own," Jack decided finally. "But is he really worth it?" he added almost painfully. 

Brock's breath was shaky and his shoulders tensed and relaxed at once, his chest falling in relief yet tightening with the guilt of all his lies. All his past mistakes. Then he nodded. "I think so." 

"I don't think this is going to work," Jack told him. He zipped up his jacket and straightened his collar. 

"I know it's bad timing," Brock told him, his tone low and tender. "But it's not his fault," Brock added. 

"Not ours either," Jack said. His jaw was tense and grinding as he tried to believe it. 

"Would you have been jealous if it hadn't been him?" Brock asked, kept his voice down. "You've never answered me," he realized, possibly imagining the little shift in Jack's breath that told him he hit a sensitive spot. "I don't think we would be having this discussion if it wasn't for him." 

"So now what?" Jack asked, once more evading a reply. 

"We figure something out," Brock decided. 

"Well, we gotta do it after I've fed your cat," Jack told him, straightening his back and taking half a step to the side without moving away from Brock. 

"How about you wait there for me?" Brock suggested. "At home?" 

"The whole night?" Jack asked, his expression sceptical. 

"We can have breakfast together," Brock offered. 

Jack nodded for a second before he took another step and walked away without looking back. 

Brock had no idea how to handle that conversation, but he had no time to dwell on it. He had to hurry to make it to his station in time. 

For once, work seemed to just fly by. It was quiet, but not too quiet and everyone seemed to either be on a layover or well prepared for security checks. He talked to everyone a little, small talk somehow easy today with how relaxed he was. 

He texted Steve in his break, expecting him to be asleep but he wasn't surprised to catch him awake either. It was good company. The only one he allowed in as he sat in arrivals, a little off the side as usual, and ate his tuna sandwich alone. 

Around two in the morning he started feeling tired, the night finally catching up to him. He made sure to stay on his feet, jumping a couple of times when no one was looking, his body feeling younger for the first time in ages. 

When he clocked out, he sent Steve another text, telling him to have a safe flight later that day. He bought coffee and waffles on his way home, hoping he had a couple of eggs left in the fridge. 

Jack was still asleep when he let himself in and so was Crossbones, curled up on Brock's pillow. The sight made him homesick despite the fact that he was standing in his own doorway and he vowed to make Steve spend more time here. 

He changed into a fresh t-shirt and was lucky to not only find eggs in the fridge but some cheese too. As quietly as possible he pulled out a pan, put the waffles in the oven to keep them warm and then stared at the coffee cups for a couple of seconds, pondering over a decision. 

In the end, he chose to walk back into his living room that served as a guest room too and gently put one of the coffees down next to Jack who was still sleeping on the couch. He hovered for just one second before retreating, determined to distract himself with making breakfast. 

He had been on it for just ten minutes until Jack showed up in the kitchen doorway, the coffee in his hands and a sleepy smile on his face. 

"Morning," Brock said, but he was nervous so he kept his eyes on the eggs. 

"How was work?" Jack asked. He remained in his spot as he watched Brock, reminding him once again of Steve. This time Brock didn't bother to fight these thoughts. 

"Surprisingly low maintenance," Brock told him, grabbed a plate and filled it for Jack. He put on an oven mitt to get him a waffle too. "Did you sleep okay?" 

"Better than at the hotel," Jack told him. "Better than at Sharon's." 

Brock nodded and decided to take it as a compliment. 

"How's Steve?" Jack asked. Whether to catch Brock off guard or to passive aggressively put the topic they've been dancing around on the table wasn't too clear. 

Brock checked the time before answering. "Off in a couple of hours," he just said. "Back on Saturday." 

"That legal?" Brock asked as he finally took the plate and sat down at the table. 

"Layovers and timezones," Brock told him, but he shrugged. He didn't know the technicalities. 

"So we got a week to ourselves?" Jack asked, loading a fork and balancing the cheesy eggs to his lips. The question surprised Brock and he watched him eat with a perplexed expression for a moment. Trying to read him, but it seemed too good to be true. 

Brock took a bite of his waffle as he nodded, buying himself some time. He tried to figure it out, the thing between them, tried to make sense of it. Steve was still there in the back of his mind, somehow giving him the confidence to proceed in his quest. 

* * *

Nothing happened between them. Not that week. It wasn't really something Brock was ready for yet. That didn't mean that nothing had changed though. 

Jack spent a lot of the time over at Brock's, there were moments in which other things were well within reach. There was flirting, there were more comfortable touches, there was a night spent sleeping in the same bed, though it wasn't Brock's, it was Sharon's once more. 

Over the week, Brock finally stopped checking the news non-stop, seeking out whatever policy issue Pierce might have been involved in. Stopped flinching every time his phone lit up, stopped expecting it to be bad news. 

There were moments, still, when Brock looked at Jack and wondered about that night. Some part of him was unyielding in its belief that something else happened that night in the office building. Something more than silent intimidation. But most of the time, those thoughts were drowned out by positive distraction. By whatever was hatching, was growing, was developing right in front of his eyes. 

It was difficult for Brock to guess what was going through Jack's mind. Whether he really was just okay with Steve being in the picture. With Steve staying in the picture. Whether Jack was able to see that whole picture at all. The one Brock was so eager to live in now. 

"You want the best of both worlds?" Sharon had asked him. She was trying to understand. 

But Brock didn't just want the best of both worlds. He wanted both worlds. Good and bad, all of it. Even the mediocre parts. And the boring bits too. 

"I'm having whatever they're willing to share," he'd said, although he knew it didn't answer the question. 

Sharon didn't challenge him. Didn't say anything else. There was no way though that she missed the change in chemistry when they were all together. Maybe she'd seen it coming, had known all along. Maybe she didn't think there was anything wrong with it either. She didn't mention Steve. 

At night, Brock often lay awake, anxiety flaring up at random. Useless fears coming back to him without prompt or cause. And usually he picked up his phone then, seeking Steve's company above everyone else's. The one urge he didn't know how to fight yet. The one distraction that seemed to always work best. 

Maybe it was because for once timezones worked in his favor and he didn't have to feel bad for keeping Steve up when he was having breakfast instead. 

It had started then, in the middle of the night that Friday, thoroughly unexpected although, thinking back, it had actually started earlier. That night in Steve's apartment actually. When he had, for the first time, asked the question that would catch Brock's attention every single time onwards. 

'And if?' 

Brock had known even then that it meant something, but he hadn't known just how important his answers had been to Steve. How important they were and were going to be. 

At first Brock had been pondering about the words, rephrasing and then going back to his original question. Hitting sent eventually, just because he was so fed up with his own indecision.

To Steven 1:34AM  
when are you coming home? 

It felt strange, after where they stood now, to miss him this intensely. To want him back home, back in his arms and bed as soon as possible. Some things his friends couldn't make up for, not even Jack. 

From Steven 1:37AM  
Late.

From Steven 1:37AM  
After 5 probably.

Brock had blocked his entire day to see Steve and he didn't really care how late it was going to happen. 

To Steven 1:38AM  
I can pick you up…?

From Steven 1:40AM  
Or you can wait at your place. And be ready for me. 

Brock frowned at first, then sat up straight, suddenly awake. Suddenly excited. Suddenly aroused. 

To Steven 1:41AM  
Finally? You sure?

From Steven 1:42AM  
Unless you don't want to anymore. 

To Steven 1:43AM  
Of course I still want to. 

He felt dumb and young and happy all around. So dumb and young and happy that he didn't know what to do with himself. 

To Steven 1:44AM  
I could still pick you up?

To Steven 1:45AM  
or do you not want to be seen with me?

From Steven 1:46AM  
Don't care about that. I can find my way to yours just fine though. 

To Steven 1:47AM  
Are you seeing someone else on the way over here? 

It was meant to be a joke, but as soon as Brock had hit send he realized it wouldn't come across. Not after his jealousy first and then his big talk about ditching all the rules later. 

Luckily, he didn't have too much time to dwell on it. 

From Steven 1:48AM  
And if? 

The reply went seamlessly from his fingers onto the keyboard and he hit sent without a second of doubt. 

To Steven 1:48AM  
Then I'll still be ready and waiting for you.

It was the right answer and Brock felt it in his heart even before he received Steve's reply. 

From Steven 1:50AM  
see you at the airport? 

To Steven 1:50AM  
You bet. 

He went to sleep thinking that this wouldn't have been what Sharon meant with '_the best of both worlds_'. But realizing that he didn't care anymore. 

He stood in his shower, the water warm and his head in the right space, when he realized how long it had been since he'd gotten himself ready for another man. He really had been stubbornly focused on his preferences the whole time, on what he needed his preferences to be. 

There was a lot of awkward fumbling, a lot of borderline painful stretches, his arms, his neck, his wrists, his rim. Part of him was convinced Steve would find a reason to backtrack anyway, find a reason why this was a bad idea. The thoughts played over in his head and he wasn't sure if maybe this was what he wanted to happen. 

Still, he'd gotten hard despite everything, the anticipation and his own touch providing enough for his imagination, but he had managed not to get himself off. It was stupid, but he wanted to get there with Steve. He wanted Steve to make him come. Even if it would be embarrassingly fast. 

His body already felt sore when he got out of the shower. Not painfully so. The same as from a good workout. If Steve would indulge in this the same Brock had with him in the past, he was screwed though. He wouldn't be able to make it through his next shift. 

For once, circumstances didn't prevent him from dressing nicely for Steve. Digging into his closet, he fished out some jeans that were almost new and the only reason why he hadn't worn them was that he was sparing them for spring, for when the roughest weather had passed. He wore the same buttoned shirt from their first night together, vaguely remembering or imagining Steve liking it on him. He even shaved properly just because he felt like it, put on his best aftershave and used a little product for his hair. 

He wanted to look his best. 

At the airport, Brock waited in the same spot he usually had lunch in, passing time on his phone and not paying any attention to the people around him. Jack was working a shift, but Brock knew from the texts they had sent back and forth that his break had already passed. Sharon had her day off and he wasn't close with anyone else. Most likely any of his other co-workers wouldn't recognize him in these clothes and even if they would, he doubted they would take offense if he didn't look up to greet them or to shake hands. 

His heart began racing at once once the first passengers came through the exit doors. Steve had told him he wasn't going to pilot the last stint of his journey, so he could be walking out any second with the rest of the crowd. Since he wouldn't have baggage to collect, he might even be out early. 

Eventually, Brock realized why Steve had been so hesitant to meet him here. It hadn't been for his own sake as he seemed genuinely happy to Brock see this time. It had been to spare Brock the look of disapproval Falcon threw at him as he passed him first, wordlessly with only a nod for acknowledgement, hurrying to get home himself. 

The moment threw Brock off entirely and for a second he forgot that he was waiting for Steve. When he turned to follow Wilson with his gaze, he saw that Steve's friend was looking back at him too, his expression more worried than condemning. 

"There's nothing to see," Brock said to himself just as he turned around, surprised when Steve was already stepping into his space, closer than Brock had expected. "Nothing to worry about," he added quietly, although he knew he had already hurt Steve more than once. 

Steve just kissed him. 

And Brock almost toppled over from the shock of it. He hadn't expected it to happen, though it was hard to tell what he had expected instead. Steve had an arm around him instantly, holding him steady and everyone else around them seemed to disappear. 

For a brief second however, Brock wondered if Falcon was still looking. 

Then he brought his hands up, clutching the collar of Steve's uniform, and pulling him even closer, everything falling into place. 

They didn't break apart, just sort of drifted out of it, one moment they were kissing and the next they were just standing there and Brock's eyes were focused all on Steve and they were both smiling, knowing there was more to come. 

"You want to get out of here?" Steve asked, his voice carrying a terrifying weight and Brock's heart began racing once more. He nodded though because despite his earlier doubts, it was what he wanted. It was all he wanted. 

* * *

"You think they'll come around?" Brock asked as he let Steve in, watching out for Crossbones as he did so. He was feeling nervous, but once he saw that Steve, too, was squeezing past the door, quick and carefully, watching out for any attempt of Brock's cat to slip out, he realized he didn't need to be. 

"Who?" Steve asked as he closed the door behind him. 

"Wilson," Brock said, simply because the name came out much easier. "Barnes," he added then to prove to himself that he could. 

"We'll see," Steve just said. That didn't particularly hurt but still tasted bitter taking in. 

Brock nodded. It was a useless thing to worry about. Steve was here right now and that was all that mattered. 

"You hungry?" Brock asked, because he didn't know what else to say. The irony didn't escape him. 

Steve shook his head and moved closer. He kissed Brock again, one hand on Brock's neck and the other going straight for his crotch. 

Although his body reacted instantly, Brock couldn't help the smallest flare of disappointment that Steve hadn't put it on his ass. 

"Let me catch a shower first," Steve said, his tone regretful. "Get this work week off me. The planes and the airports." 

Brock nodded, gestured towards his bedroom. 

"Don't get undressed," Steve added then, giving Brock another once over. "I'd like to help with that." 

With all words wiped from his mind, Brock swallowed and nodded again. He felt utterly virginal at once. 

"Okay?" Steve asked and Brock knew if he wouldn't manage to get some words out now, Steve wouldn't feel comfortable going any further. 

"Okay," he echoed. "I'll wait." 

And he did. Waited. Every last one of the worst eighteen minutes of his life. 

He sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating what he was about to do. It wasn't a big deal, at least that's what he kept telling himself. Though he tried to keep those thoughts out and away from him, he knew that after today, to all those people working with him, all those people he barely knew and possibly didn't even like, to all those people he wouldn't just be another guy who fucked Captain America. He'd be the one who bent over for him. 

It didn't matter that it was none of their business. Didn't matter that they wouldn't even know. They were there in Brock's head still. They'd always be there. 

He opened his nightstand to get lube and condoms out. Though they had stopped at a drugstore to buy those same items earlier. It was what Steve had originally intended to do by himself on his way over to Brock's. Apparently, the brand did matter to Steve or Brock's stuff just wasn't good enough for him. Though as Brock looked at the bottle and box in his hands, he couldn't find anything wrong with them. 

"The stuff I got you is to make you hurt less and feel more," Steve said, suddenly standing by the doorway with a towel wrapped around his hips. 

"That's reassuring," Brock said, dumping his things back into the drawer. He didn't know the right lube and condoms would make a big difference. He hadn't wanted Steve to hurt either. Have him feel less. Or maybe he had. Maybe he had been that kind of an asshole. "I'm sorry," he added, looking up at Steve. "I didn't know." 

Steve shook his head gently as he walked over and sat down next to Brock on the bed. His hair was still wet, but he still smelled like him. Had used his own shower gel and shampoo. More of Brock's that wasn't good enough. 

And for a second Brock wondered if it should have been Jack instead, now, here with him. About to do this. 

"I think I'm going insane," Brock said. He didn't know what to do with all of this. To do with himself. 

"You wanna stop?" Steve asked. "Do something else?"

"No," Brock assured him. "It's just, I have to tell you something too." He glanced at Steve hoping to find some confidence but feeling worse when he saw his patient expression. "Me and Jack," he started, looking at his hands now. 

"Did something happen?" Steve asked but Brock shook his head. 

"I think it might though," he admitted. "I think I want to. I think he wants to. I thought you should know." 

"I'm not in the mood for threesomes," Steve said, his tone had changed so much it made Brock look up. 

"That's not why I'm telling you," he assured him. It hadn't even crossed his mind. Yet. Until now. But he fought those thoughts to the side. 

"You're telling me we're done," Steve said matter-of-factly. Or so he tried. Brock could tell the prospect bothered him. If not out of love than for a whole range of different emotions. Those that Brock shared with him. 

"No," he told Steve. "I just wanted you to know that it was happening. Maybe. On the side. Or, you know, just right there. And I don't know how that will affect us, but Jack knows that I'm in love with you." 

Steve nodded, probably unsure what that meant for them in return. Unsure why it was a big deal. 

"He knows I want you just as much," Brock tried, but he knew it was a lie. A lie he had to tell himself. Because the truth was so much more complex. He wanted Steve differently. So differently, so utterly alien to everything he'd known before that he couldn't help but feel that he wanted him more. More urgently and more violently. More passionately. More pressing and more painful. Uglier and impactful. And he knew that only if he could have Steve like that, could he be the man he wanted to be for Jack. The man Jack deserved. Only then could he allow himself to want them just the same. 

"Are you asking me for permission?" Steve wondered, trying to make sense of it. Make sense of it for both of them. 

"I think so," Brock admitted. He didn't know how to put it into a question. 

"Can we talk about it later?" Steve asked, surprising Brock. Somehow he hadn't expected Steve to say anything but _yes_. 

"Sure," Brock said, more out of reflex. He wasn't sure now whether he wanted to revisit this conversation. 

"I'm not saying no," Steve added, as if sensing it was the kind of reassurance that Brock needed. "It's just something I've never done before." 

That raised Brock's eyebrows and he turned to face Steve properly. "You're saying you've never been involved with someone who was in a relationship?" Brock asked, his tone reflecting his disbelief. 

"Not like that," Steve just said. "Not like, in a long term arrangement." 

Brock grinned, not because he had been right about the obvious but because Steve's hesitation about Jack was caused by his willingness to make this work. Long term. "So you think we might last a while, huh?" he asked, couldn't help himself. The realization pumped adrenaline through his entire body. Made him feel dizzy and happy at once. 

Steve's eyes were on him, soft but intense as he stood for a brief moment, before stepping between Brock's knees and sinking down there. Then he began unbuttoning Brock's shirt and Brock couldn't stop looking at him. His hair, his face, the damp skin on his chest. The satisfaction that ran through him as he helped undress Brock just the way he had wanted to. 

Brock fumbled with the towel around Steve's hips until it dropped. He wanted to be able to see all of him. 

Steve was already hard which satisfied and disappointed Brock at once, he wouldn't have minded helping Steve along, watching it happen. 

It took less than ten minutes to get Brock naked, but it was obvious that Steve enjoyed every second of it. His hands were steady and gentle and he kissed all the parts of Brock's skin he rediscovered along the way. 

Brock was torn between closing his eyes to relish in every touch, every kiss, and to watch, to witness every last moment between them, making sure not one got lost while they were safely transformed into memory. 

Steve touched him everywhere, fingers brushing along skin, dipping into muscles and flesh and then moving along to another spot on Brock's body. 

Finally he settled between Brock's knees once more, pausing to give Brock another chance to change his mind. 

"Come on," Brock told him impatiently, but he was smiling as he did so. "It's not the first time I've done this." 

"No," Steve said, "but it's the first time you're gonna love it." He didn't bother to meet Brock's eyes before he reached for the lube they'd bought, but that trace of smugness in the corner of his mouth was still visible all the way up the bed where Brock surrendered to the fact that he was probably right. 

Nothing to be done about that. 

Instead, Brock took a deep breath and let his shoulders relax on his exhale, trusting Steve to be good to him. 

Steve's hands were hot by now, leaving firey trails on the skin of Brock's thighs. 

"I love you," Brock said, a little to himself and with a smile. He was comfortably wrapped into a sweet yet slow arousal, savoring every second. His eyes felt heavy, but he couldn't take them off of Steve. 

"Do you keep telling me to make me feel bad?" Steve asked. His tone was soft, genuine, even a little insecure. There was not a hint of accusation. 

He looked so good between Brock's thighs, his hair looser than usual, a bit of unfamiliar concentration between his eyebrows as he uncapped the lube without looking down at the bottle. 

"The opposite," Brock assured him, bumping his knee against Steve's elbow for a second. "I know you like hearing it. And I don't mind saying it." 

Most importantly, he didn't mind not hearing it back. He felt loved either way. From multiple sides and multiple sources. And he felt loved by Steven even if he'd deny doing so. 

He barely felt the first touch, then caught himself leaning into it. There was none of the tense pressure he remembered from others, from earlier experiences. 

"You're really going to be annoyingly good at this, won't you?" he said, his eyes still unable to let go of the sight. Not just because he loved looking at him. He was fascinated with himself, the calm of his body in this long avoided territory. By watching Steve he marveled at his own position, taking in everything around him in order to locate himself more clearly. Here. And with Steve. With Steve's fingers on him. Getting him hard then letting him off. Then teasing him more just to distract him. Distract Brock from having Steve inside him too. 

"I don't think you're going to have many reasons to complain," Steve just told him, working Brock open slowly with his magical fingers. 

His voice sounded different than it had ever before. More present somehow, laced with deep understanding and a confident knowledge of what he was talking about. It was vaguely different from the voice Brock had heard on the airplane, different from his voice on the phone. Almost opposite from his voice when things had been reversed. And Brock blamed himself for it. For the confusion he had brought onto him. 

"No, I guess not," Brock said. He wasn't sad about it. "I could still talk you through it?" Brock asked, knowing he was pushing it. "If you want," he added, watching Steve for a reaction. 

Steve paused and looked up. He'd clearly understood what Brock was hinting at. 

"Me?" he asked back, "or yourself?" 

"Either," he offered, then decided on something else. "Both."

Steve looked interested but held back a reply. Instead he bent down and to the side to place a kiss on Brock's thigh. It was impossible to remember whether he'd ever done that before. Whether anyone had. 

And suddenly, despite the fact that Steve was right there, his touch so intimate, so intrusive, he was too far away. 

"I kind of really need you to kiss me right now," Brock admitted. He didn't dare to make a move himself. This was still somewhat new to him and he wasn't going to take any chances to ruin his own comfort. And part of him liked the way Steve was in control, liked having to ask him for things. Maybe their stupid games had finally succeeded in conditioning him. 

Steve looked at him once more in surprise. He eased his fingers out carefully before moving up over Brock's body until they were face to face. Then he kissed him, liked Brock had requested, even better, kissed him as if it was the only thing he'd come here for. 

As always, the skin around Steve's chin was smooth, freshly shaven just that morning, and so were his lips, firm against Brock's and somewhat cool, which gave away only Brock's own flushed and heated state. 

Steve was as generous with his kisses as he was with everything, let Brock have them until he was satisfied. Until the press of Steve's lips lingered even when he pulled away and the ghosting touch of his tongue remained so that it was difficult for Brock to speak after. 

Steve was about to move off him, resume his position between Brock's knees, when Brock stopped him, suddenly knowing exactly what he wanted. What he needed. 

"I'm good," he told Steve almost in a hurry. "I'm ready." 

Steve smiled to himself as if he'd expected it. Then he shook his head softly. 

"If you're thinking I couldn't possibly need it that badly, you're wrong," Brock told him, somehow he was smiling again. It wasn't like him to smile that much in bed. To smile in the middle of sex. The middle of sex with Steve. But it was easy now, natural. He felt like it. All of the time now. "I really do need it that bad."

The corner of Steve's mouth lifted, it was more of a smirk than a smile, but it gave Brock hope that he would hear him laugh today too. 

"Who would have thought," Steve just said, adding a bit more lube to his fingers. He had been right about his choice. Not that Brock could tell the difference. He's never actually had his own lube up his ass. But this one felt nice, slick and not too cold, soothing as it lasted no matter how often Steve breached him with his fingers. 

And it happened countless times. Over and over again, just a finger first and later two and Brock was already losing his mind over how close he was. On top of that he could feel that he was loose enough for another, the stretch had comfortably given way to relaxation and now he wanted more. 

"Steve," he tried, his voice betraying him. He sounded breathy and distressed, sweat gathering on his forehead. "I want more." 

For once Steve obliged and teased Brock with the tip of a third finger.   
As he pushed further, Brock realized he was closer to his orgasm than he thought, his body jolting as he squirmed away from Steve's hand. 

"Stop, stop, stop," he almost cried his warning, caught between panic and fighting his body's urge to go over the edge with its climax. "I'm too close," he managed to get out, his hands and knees shaking. He realized at once that he couldn't do it if he'd come beforehand. If the rush of the arousal threatened to fade and his mind would return fully into the present. "I need you to fuck me before," he insisted. He'd be too ashamed otherwise.

Steve looked confused for a minute, his hands helpless and forgotten between his own knees. "Okay," he just said, watching Brock for another second before his eyes went searching for the box of condoms. "This isn't the panic attack I feared you might have, right?" he asked after he found it. He wiped his fingers on the towel he'd used before and then tore the edge of the wrapping open. 

"No," Brock told him, although it surely was part of it. "I just-," he broke off and watched Steve roll the condom over. "How do you cope?" he wondered. "Afterwards?" he added nervously. "With how weird it feels." He couldn't find a better word to describe the feeling he remembered from the couple of times he did this before. From at least that one other time Steve had been feeling that same way after they've slept together. 

Steve looked up, hands still on himself, fixing the condom's fit at the base of his cock. "I'll make it feel good." 

Somehow it was enough for Brock to believe him. 

He shuffled to get back into his spot, but then hesitated, not sure how Steve wanted him. 

"Just get comfortable," Steve said, picking up on Brock's failed attempt to find a position. "I'll make it good afterwards," he added, infuriatingly sure of himself. Still, Brock trusted him once more to do just that. 

After a moment of contemplation, Brock settled on his front. It somehow felt better, knowing he could hide his face when he had to, knowing he would shoot his load into the sheets, able to hide it, rather than out in the open and between their bodies. 

It didn't seem to make any difference to Steve who moved over Brock's body as elegantly and quietly as a cat, then giving away his presence by kissing Brock's shoulder and the nape of his neck. 

With every passing second, Brock felt his body tensing, anticipation and fear mingling beneath his skin. Less than a minute later, he couldn't take it anymore. 

"You're not suddenly scared, are you?" he wondered, surprised by the confidence in his tone. 

"No," Steve said, his touch encouraging and gentle all over Brock's body. Fleeting fingertips at first and then all of him, his body pressed against Brock's. "Don't hold your breath." 

Brock was about to tell Steve to fuck his advice, that he was breathing just fine when he realized his throat was closed and his lungs were tight already. Never had an exhale cost him this much effort. 

Steve used the opportunity to push into him, Brock's heart bursting until he realized it wasn't Steve's dick but his finger. Again. 

"Good," he said almost inaudible. But Brock was lucky enough to catch it because he was involuntary holding his breath again. Steve could probably tell, but he said nothing and Brock managed to breathe in and out a couple of times without pause. 

He could feel Steve behind him, could feel his dick right there against his rim, the tension taking hold of his entire body. 

"Fuck," he muttered. He wasn't annoyed with Steve's games, it was simply too much. It was up to him now. 

Sweat was building where the skin of Steve's forehead rested against Brock's shoulder and all over the skin of Brock's stomach, where the sheets pressed against him. It couldn't have been November then in that moment, not with that kind of heat between them. 

It wasn't a conscious decision when it happened, it was his body deciding for him. One second Steve was lined up and the next he was already inside, the head of Steve's cock shaping the stretch, better and worse than his fingers. Bigger and blunt, the shock of the entry soothed by smooth slick latex. 

"Shit," Brock gasped, struggling to cope. He'd been here before, but not like this. He had expected the sting of tense tight muscles and a burning discomfort. But his body was accepting Steve without resistance. Was prepared to adjust, and it felt so painfully unlike him that tears ran from his eyes. He reached out almost frantically, Steve's hand meeting his not one second late. 

"More," Brock told him without thinking about it. He wanted Steve all the way. "Steve," he called, his voice as overwhelmed as his thoughts. "More, come on." 

"Breathe," Steve said back again with his stupid advice. His stupid experience. His stupid seniority. Brock didn't want to hear any of it. Not now.

"I don't want to breathe," he forced out, "I want you to fuck me." The tension of the simple stretch was too much to bear. His body was relaxed yet it was begging for action. The stillness fucked with his head, made him itch to clench around Steve or bear down, but he was worried it would eventually cause him to tighten up and leave him sore. 

He must have sounded desperate enough because Steve had mercy with him, pushing in deeper even though he still refused to outright fuck into him. It still felt amazing enough and took the edge right off. 

Brock didn't remember anymore if he'd gotten soft for a moment there, but he felt his dick aching beneath him now. 

He turned his head for a second only to find himself staring and his hand clasping Steve's, their fingers intertwined and almost shockingly pale from the pressure. But he couldn't stop holding onto him just yet, his lover, his boyfriend, his whatever. His world. If the world was his bedroom and that night. 

He tried to meet Steve's movements, it was useless yet to try and call them thrusts. Every twitch of his own hips added friction to his cock though and soon he didn't know anymore whether he wanted to bring them forward or back. 

Steve's confidence was growing, his cock sliding in and out of Brock a little faster now, a little stronger. Brock registered the sounds of his own moans in his ears, but was unable to control them. 

Steve was gentle yet unmistakenly present inside of Brock, the realization becoming certainty, the certainty becoming knowledge. He knew Steve in a different way now, one he hadn't allowed to develop with many people in his life. 

Steve kissed him anywhere he could reach just as Brock would have if the roles were reversed. The urge to kiss him back was so strong that for a moment he forgot that Steve was buried inside him and he tried pushing himself up to flip over, in dire need to be face to face with Steve. But Steve's weight on him was keeping him in place and to say he used force when he finally started thrusting a second later would have been overstated. 

"You okay?" Steve asked him, his voice so calm Brock wouldn't have guessed he was in the middle of fucking if he's just heard him and wouldn't have been feeling his dick inside on top of that. He was holding back. He was in control. He was different from Brock. He wasn't losing himself in them and the sex.

"I'm old, but I'm not fragile," he reminded Steve. But he was still thankful for how careful and considered Steve was. "You don't have to hold back," he told him anyway. 

Part of him wished Steve would be rougher just so that the blatant difference between the way each of them had handled the other would disappear. Part of him wished Steve would find other words for him too. Condescending and humiliating ones. But Steve didn't. Of course he didn't. Instead he kissed Brock between cheek and ear, painfully soft and intimate. 

"You're unusually quiet that's all," Steve noted, but Brock couldn't bear the thought of Steve looking after him like that. 

Maybe they had more in common than Brock had originally thought. The one that wasn't in love, that couldn't love, shouldn't be the one acting like it. It was supposed to be the other way around. 

"I told you I'd talk you through it, if that's what you need," he offered again although it sounded stupid even to his own ears. But he needed it, needed to recognize himself. Himself with Steve. It was a bad habit. 

He felt like crying, but it could have easily been the intensity of the sex, his body starting to feel heavy and exhausted from the ongoing penetration. And yet Steve didn't seem worked up at all. 

"Why do I feel like I'm letting you down again?" Brock asked, staring straight ahead with his neck straining. "Isn't it my job just to do nothing?" he wondered. "How do I fuck that up?" 

"You don't have a job," Steve just said, his tone still untouched by what they were doing. 

"You're not going insane. Not like me," Brock tried. Admitted. Then he felt embarrassed. "If the roles were reversed," he added, thinking how he was going insane in a different way right now.

"How do you know that?" Steve argued, because he was Steve. But he hadn't wanted to take Brock's body and make it his own. He hadn't handled it like it already was. Like it was his fucking prerogative to use it. 

"Just tell me you're not bored," Brock pleaded. He knew he had wanted, still wanted Steve in all the wrong ways. In all fucked up ways, but he wished in that moment that Steve would want him back just like that. He wanted to surrender his limits too. He wanted Steve to take whatever he needed. He wanted to agree to things he couldn't even imagine yet. 

It was as if Steve had read his thoughts in that question, suddenly losing his restrained composure. He grabbed Brock with one hand by his hips and the other squeezed between mattress and Brock's chest, perfectly aligning their bodies, his cock all the way inside, taking hold of Brock, of his arousal. The pressure of the stretch, of the intrusion waded thickly all the way through Brock's organs until it reached his cock, building towards a release from the inside. He knew it was different from simply having his prostate stimulated, he vividly remembered what that felt like. His body wasn't jolting with the sensitivity, instead he felt tranquilized with Steve's proximity. With his hands on him and his dick inside and his mouth against his neck. Brock felt dizzy and drunk. Every hair on his body standing with Steve's skin brushing against his. Steve wasn't just with him then, Steve was all of him, feeding all of Brock's senses. He was close, his body too responsive to the contact, the sheets beneath him a mere continuation of Steve's warmth and his touch. 

"Don't you know that I've wanted you for years?" Steve asked, painfully quiet with his cheek pressed against the curve of Brock's shoulder. 

The words reached Brock's ear hot and breathy and he shivered as they sank in deeper, all the way through all of his body. He had his eyes closed before he had a chance to decide so, his fingers grasping the sheets and he came in a feverish haze, almost weakly so and slow, torturous with barely any satisfaction. His body empty and wrung out in Steve's arms, everything else blurring into distant recollections that were already disappearing into the forgotten. 

Steve was kissing him when he came back to himself, kissing the corner of his mouth, of what Brock realized was a smile. It felt right to be smiling. 

"Don't just throw these sentences around," he said, surprised that his voice hadn't left him. "Or else you won't know what to say at the wedding." He was suddenly feeling the belated high of his orgasm, felt light and content and still drowsy with Steve all around and still inside him. Still fucking into him. Finally in just the way Brock had asked him to and he let him. Could take it. Wanted to take it.

"Have Jack tell the story of how he stood you up," Steve suggested, but Brock barely registered it. His heart jumped a little at the mention, but other than that Brock was too busy being fucked while his body couldn't decide whether it was tired or awake, aching or ecstatic, aroused or oversensitive. Thinking of Jack caused too much effort, resources that Brock didn't have. There was no space left, in his mind or his body, to accommodate Jack now. There was only Steve. 

Until there wasn't and Brock was suddenly left open and exposed. 

"Turn around," Steve said from behind him and Brock complied without delay. Exposing himself in a completely different way. 

Steve looked him over, head to cock, his face wild with sex and confusion. He wasn't at all as collected as Brock had assumed. A beautiful surprise. 

"Sorry," Brock said, but he wasn't sorry. He was happy. He didn't care that he'd already come, that he had failed to hold out and make it last. It had been beautiful and he still felt drugged from it. 

"That's okay," Steve assured him although he didn't look okay. He looked sweaty and stern and frustrated, but handsome too. And Brock loved him. "I was just about to pull all the stops," Steve told him, looking a little lost there hovering above Brock's body, his knees next to Brock's thighs. 

"Next time," Brock suggested. He wouldn't mind a next time. He wouldn't mind a next time after he had time to process this time. To understand his reaction to it. After allowing his body to fully recover. 

Rationally, he knew that this wasn't going to have a lasting effect. Not with all the work Steve had put into his preparation. But it was difficult to imagine being this open for Steve always, being this available to him. Adjusting. 

He knew he was being a hypocrite for he expected Steve to be exactly that and more. 

"Next time," Steve agreed before Brock had a chance to wallow too long in his own shortcomings. He moved up over Brock's body until they were close enough to kiss. "Wanna give me a hand?" he asked, "or do you want to watch me." 

With everything still out of focus, Brock wasn't sure how he was supposed to decide. He didn't feel equipped to do either if he was honest. Instead he pulled Steve into another kiss, tasting what he'd missed while they were having sex. He didn't know anymore whether he regretted it now, their position and that he'd let go so early. That he had begged Steve for this in the first place. He felt so good, but he worried it came at a cost. 

"You could finish what we've started," Brock said, despite his better judgement. He even let his knees fall further apart. 

"That's what I'm trying to do," Steve said, sitting back up on top of Brock's body, touching himself. He was still hard, of course he was. Maybe this was unfamiliar for him too, maybe he did have preferences for something else, maybe Brock had bored him despite what he'd said

"Let me help," Brock said then, thinking he was expected to. 

"But?" Steve asked, picking up on the edge of Brock's tone. 

"Nothing," Brock insisted. "I want to help, but I was wondering," he started, the image of Steve right there with his cock in his head gave his fucked out brains additional ideas. "Maybe you could do that thing again," he continued, "with your mouth and your tongue and your-." 

He was forty years old, had called Steve's hole every name in the book and now he couldn't find any words for something so much simpler. 

"And come on you," Steve finished for him. 

Brock nodded although it wasn't exactly what he had wanted to ask. He wasn't too eager to have Steve's come on him. He had wanted to see it more than feel it, had wanted Steve to come on himself before playing with it, licking it off his fingers. He had wanted Steve to show him just how shameless he was. But this was good too. This was close enough. "Wherever you want," he offered even. 

Steve answered with his hands, removing the condom and giving himself another stroke. Brock joined him, feeling the obligation to at least make an effort. While he was tugging on Steve's cock, as enthusiastic as he could, Steve reached for the lube again to ease the touch. 

Brock let his fingers move up and down Steve's dick, tried to maintain a firm grip, but he was tired and he almost shamefully admitted to himself that he didn't know what Steve liked. He'd never paid it too much thought, preoccupied with what he wanted and enjoyed. 

He almost flinched at the realization, couldn't bear to look at Steve any longer. But Steve had his eyes closed anyway, enjoying the physical attention, enjoying the stimulation. Enjoying himself. 

Brock watched his own hand for a while and Steve's beautiful cock wrapped inside it. The cock that had just fucked him minutes ago. With his fingers, Brock mapped its size and shape, the length and its weight. It wasn't fair, but he thought of Jack too in that moment, whether he would look similar, feel similar, whether he would make Brock come just as fast. 

Maybe his distraction had shown because Steve used his own hand now to help Brock and then eventually took Brock's place. It was all up to Steve now and Brock could just let himself experience what was to come. Literally. 

Brock didn't know where to look anymore. He was beginning to feel guilty everywhere and for everything. He didn't know if they were in this together anymore or whether he had more than just a foot out the door. He started worrying that a foot was everything he ever had inside. Began to wonder if what he'd called love so often and so often to Steve's face had been just infatuation, fascination, admiration. If maybe he really had been this vain to let Captain Steve Rogers's interest go to his head. If he had developed a crush and then refused to let it be pointless or meaningless. If he thought he could polish his life up by fucking him and fucking him thoroughly. 

He was buried so deep into his own thoughts that he almost missed the moment of Steve's climax, almost missed the twitch of his upper lip and the furrowed brows, the shaky breath of relief and the change in his look from hunger to satisfaction. 

His come hit Brock all over his chest, the scent hitting Brock's nose so predominantly that he tasted it on his tongue, his throat closing up involuntarily. 

He couldn't believe Steve's opposite reaction, his open expression as he looked down onto the mess he made, the small smile that played around his lips, the way his eyes lit up when they caught Brock's for a fleeting moment before bent down again, not finished yet. 

Then he went to work, cleaning up after himself. He used the tip of his tongue to tease Brock's skin and then soothed it with kisses. 

Brock couldn't stop his hand from coming up onto the back of Steve's neck, but he managed to hold himself back, stop himself from pressing Steve's face closer to his body. Although he wanted to. 

He watched Steve as best as he could, the angle and the top of Steve's head and his nose restricting the view but the simple knowledge of what Steve was doing was enough to wake Brock's body fully. Steve would always have that effect on him. 

"Jesus, Steve," he said as soon as he felt his dick filling back out again. "Shit," he added, tempted now to let his mouth run. "This is fucked up," he muttered. It was impossible to guess what went on in Steve's head, if he was aware of how utterly gross this was. Gross and messed up and hot. Unbelievably hot. 

And so Brock allowed himself to take all the pleasure from it that he knew Steve was feeling himself. Maybe they were meant to be after all. 

When Steve was finished he looked at Brock expectedly, somewhat pleased and proud, and smug as always. 

His lips were wet all over and Brock had to touch them, Steve's mouth so pliable and inviting. Brock couldn't help but stare and imagine it. The taste of Steve himself that he couldn't wash down, the taste he had been seeking out, licking off and swallowing down. Not a muscle of his face betrayed him, protested his decision, displayed any sign of discomfort. Steve was just fine after this. 

"What are you?" he wondered. Every part of him was paralyzingly mesmerized as he watched his fingers disappear between Steve's lips. 

If he had any sanity or sense of self-respect left, he wouldn't have continued to play with Steve's mouth in the same manner he had played with his ass time and time again. But there was nothing left in him to fight the urge. 

The thought of fucking either hole crossed his mind and what was worse was his conviction that Steve would let him. Would even want him to. Would love it. But he didn't think he had it in himself to put in the work. He wanted to stay right where he was and come down from it all gently and slowly. Get some rest, some sleep even. 

Steve settled next to him eventually, but he radiated a silenced agitation still. Disappointment maybe. Some shame that was delayed. 

"You're quiet," Brock tried, didn't know if he was supposed to ask. 

"Why did you want me to do that?" Steve wondered. 

The question irritated Brock. It wasn't like he had forced Steve or demanded it. It wasn't like Steve hadn't had fun doing all of it. 

"Because it's hot," Brock just told him. He left out the part where it would have been even hotter if Steve had come over himself first. 

"And convenient," Steve finished, but Brock didn't know what that was even supposed to mean. 

"What's the problem here, Steve?" Brock asked, frustrating with what was going on. Why they always had to fight at the end of the day. Hurt each other. 

"Nothing," Steve replied. "I don't know." Brock watched him as he thought better of it and put a new answer into place. "You didn't kiss me."

Brock felt his eyebrows lift as he smiled and then couldn't hold in some laughter even. Who would have thought that Steve Rogers was heartbroken over not being kissed after sex. 

Instantly, Brock leaned in for a quick kiss to mend Steve's need for some old-fashioned aftercare. He loved being close to Steve, especially after they had slept together. He loved kissing him. Usually. Every time except tonight. It wasn't just that he was avoiding tasting so much of Steve in the kiss. They'd done worse than that. But for the first time he thought that some boundaries would do them good. Although he probably shouldn't have come up with them all on his own. But he hadn't expected Steve to care this much. 

"You don't want anything to be romantic," he started, keeping an eye on Steve. "But you don't want things to be just about sex either?" he asked. "I think we're going to need a couple more tries to get it right." 

"Maybe things have changed," Steve suggested, his tone hesitant. 

"Meaning?" Brock asked. He wouldn't get his hopes up now for Steve suddenly realizing he could fall in love after all. 

"Meaning," Steve started again, then took another breath. "I didn't know it was going to be like that." 

"How?" Brock pressed, he didn't understand what Steve was talking about. 

"We say these things," Steve began to explain. "You say these things or do things to me that are a lot to process at times." 

Brock nodded, feeling guilty again. It was true. It did say things and he made Steve do things that could be difficult to process. And although he knew that Steve wanted them too, that he enjoyed them, he was still figuring out how to deal with them. With himself and his desires. 

Brock pulled him closer and kissed his shoulder, holding Steve without cornering him. 

"If you're worried I'm thinking less of you," Brock started, keeping his voice down and just between them. "Just because we sleep together a lot, you don't have to be. I'm past all that," he assured Steve. "I was giving you space because I thought you needed it, not because I think you're fucked up for what I saw you do or because you get off on the things I say." 

It was more complicated than that, but Brock didn't know how to put into words yet that maybe he was the one needing space. Especially if they were going to keep this up while Brock was building a relationship on the side. He needed to find ways to compartmentalize. To be present and not drift between one man and another. 

"I mean," he went on, trying to make Steve feel better. "I ask you to do these things and it's not just you who gets off on it. We both do." He glanced at Steve to make sure he hadn't lost him with his rambling. "I just didn't think you'd want me to draw more attention to it by making a big deal out of this later. I didn't think you would appreciate it." 

"And if I wanted it?" Steve wondered. He felt almost fragile in Brock's arms now, although there was a chance he was projecting again. 

This had been all he wanted since their first night together. Taking care of Steve, looking after him. Have him close even after they were done sleeping together. He had his lips pressed against Steve's forehead, taking a decisive breath before he spoke again. "Then that's how we're gonna do it from now on." 

* * *

"I'm seeing Jack later," Brock said, fumbling with his phone until it inevitably slipped from his fingers and landed on the mattress. 

Steve looked up from where he was zipping his bag, ready to head home. Brock knew he hadn't slept well and hoped Steve was going to at least catch up on some rest as soon as he was alone. 

"Okay," he told Brock before taking his own phone off the nightstand and slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. 

"Okay," Brock echoed, watching Steve from the bed. He was entirely unsure of what to do with that. "So when am I going to see you again?" 

* * *

He didn't see Brock for over a month. The first few days that he didn't hear from him except for a couple of texts here and there, Steve hadn't cared about the silence. 

He had his own things to figure out. 

Having some space, having his body, his head, all his thoughts to himself helped and just a little over a week later Steve found himself sleeping through the nights as if insomnia and jet lag had never touched him. 

He ran into Sharon once in that first month, but he could tell by her hesitant words that more things had changed and it didn't take much effort to guess what it was. 

The day after he'd gotten the call from the flight school, he saw Rollins heading out from his shift, taking an all too familiar route. When Steve returned with Sam two days later, he caught sight of Jack again, joking and laughing with a couple of other guys from security. Brock didn't have to be there to make his presence known. A new presence. In Jack's smile and his gestures. In his stance. The relaxed posture and the casual confidence. His physical form being the unmistakable image of a man who recently got laid. Of someone satisfied. 

And maybe Steve had given his permission, had implied it when he hadn't protested. Maybe his explicit permission had never been necessary. Maybe neither Brock nor him had followed up on the '_I think so_' and the '_Let's talk about it later_' because neither of them wanted to make a decision. Maybe too much involvement would have been inconvenient. 

Either way, it had happened and Steve realized that he was staring. Realized the dip in the corner of his mouth, the crooked smile and his amusement as he watched Jack for a beat longer. Then he gave the strap of his bag a slight tug, stopping it from slipping over his shoulder and kept walking. 

He thought about Brock often when he was alone, getting off to the memories. Rewriting some of them still and pushing others far away. 

The nostalgic part of him refused to replace them with any real action yet. Steve kept to himself. He wasn't even sure whether any of the offers still stood. Sooner or later he would feel it again, the thrill of the flirt and the moment of attraction. Right now, he mimicked Brock's touch and let his words resound. He had come to learn that it wasn't a fixed thing, that it depended on the days, on his moods, whether he'd let the Brock in his head praise or insult him. As with most things in his life, it was a gray area, a spectrum, it was as circumstantial as the weather. And Steve was just maneuvering his plane through the currents. 

It eventually happened during his last week with the airline that he stood before Brock again, the entire flight crew lined up behind him for security checks. Brock was assigned to the body scanner he was about to step in, looking a little tired, the end of his shift probably near. He seemed to have his hair recently cut and those sharper lines on his face had filled out again with the stress of their arrangement gone. Steve tried to not take it personal. 

There was a small delay before the results of the scans showed in which they stood wordlessly at each side. Steve wanted to say something, but he couldn't find anywhere to start and part of him was relieved when Brock motioned for him to step to the side to get checked by hand. 

The first touch caught Steve off guard, Brock's fingers stroking along his collar, from the back of his neck towards the front. The contact, although muted through the fabric, ran down Steve's spine causing the slightest shiver. 

"Bet you at least regret letting this guy do all those things to you," Brock muttered with a glance towards the flight crew that was still waiting to pass through the scanner individually. 

Steve followed his eyes for a second, but couldn't pick up on what Brock was seeing. He didn't know any of the crew members beyond brief exchanges before takeoff and through the intercom. He'd barely eaten lunch with even one of them throughout the years. He hadn't let any flight attendant do anything to him. Not since Nat left who had a habit of introducing him. Since Sam was with him in the cockpit, they would usually spend most of their time just the two of them. 

"You never let that guy do anything to you, did you?" Brock added then, answering his own question. "It was a lie."

Steve still didn't know what Brock was referring to, but it wasn't hard to guess. Apparently Steve's reputation was accompanying him until the last day on the job. 

He was looking at Brock who stared right back at him, wanting more answers that Steve just couldn't provide. So he did it himself. 

"And all those pictures he showed around were probably pulled off the internet," Brock added, his words catching Steve's attention. 

"What pictures?" he asked, but even this one wasn't too hard to guess. He wondered whether he should feel angry, whether he should turn around and make a scene. But even now he didn't care. Not about that. He cared about Brock this close to him and how they had left things off, just hanging in the air and slowly drifting into the past. It didn't seem right for what it had been. Too intense to fade out like that.

"And I believed him," Brock admitted, but Steve could see and hear the regret. "But you never slept with him and the guy in those pictures, that wasn't you."

Steve still didn't exactly know what Brock was talking about, but it didn't matter. Not to him. These things only mattered to Brock. 

"And if?" Steve wondered, lifting his arms as Brock continued his security check. 

"Then you should know," Brock started, holding Steve's gaze as his hand moved over the side of Steve's waist towards the back. "That I had been thinking of what it'd be like to work you over like that ever since. And that it had always been better than I've imagined." 

Steve wanted to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He realized then that just as Nat before him, he was starting to miss Brock. Terribly even. 

"It's been a while," he managed to get out. 

"Nothing's changed," Brock said, but it wasn't true. The sentiment however resonated with Steve's feelings. Nothing had changed between them. There was still attraction there. And a phone number in Steve's contacts and soon more time on his hands. There was always a possibility. 

Smiling to himself, he nodded at Rollins over at the other station as he headed towards the gate, positively surprised when it was returned. 

At one of the waiting areas, Steve stopped to take in the view through the large windows. 

Outside, the apron was packed with aircrafts being boarded, loaded and refilled. The runways were busy with takeoffs and landings. And behind them the sky opened up for a future journey, a fresh chapter or different story altogether. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you for reading until the end and me for finishing this ❤️ It wasn't always easy but we made it :')
> 
> [For more Brock, you can check out the last part of the Steve POV for this chapter.]

**Author's Note:**

> [Steve POV here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375266)


End file.
